Lent begins not with what we can prove, earn, or accomplish but with ash. It begins with our foreheads marked with the truth that we are dust and in desperate need of God. God does not ask for a season of proving ourselves. God does not wait for us to become worthy. Instead, God speaks a simple invitation that has echoed through the centuries: return to me with your whole heart.
When we dare to come to God with our whole heart it is only because God has first offered us His own heart. Here is my whole heart, He says, take it, make it yours.
Sometimes that exchange happens in a church. Other times it happens in the muddy margins of a Home Depot parking lot.
Every Wednesday, as part of our formation in First Studies, a fellow Jesuit and I meet with migrant day laborers. Our work involves both accompaniment and offering English classes. We start by visiting paradas or “stops” such as hardware stores or gas stations, where men and women, many working in construction, wait for a day’s work.
We went on Ash Wednesday. That Wednesday it was raining, steady and cold. The kind of cold that makes waiting for work feel even longer.
The men and women were already there when we arrived. It was nearly eleven. The hour when hope begins to thin a bit for a person looking for work. The day laborers stood along the margins of the Home Depot parking lot, in the strip of muddy grass and along the sidewalk near the highway. Close enough to get work. Far enough to be told they didn’t have to move off the property.
Security had done their morning sweep. I’ve seen them walking with guns, with big muzzled dogs that intimidate. The people had been pushed outward, toward the edges. They gathered there quietly, hands in pockets, hoodies pulled tight. Waiting for work that likely wouldn’t come on a day like this.
We brought hot coffee. It felt small on such a cold day, but it was warm, and warmth counts.
We walked from person to person, introducing ourselves. We told them it was Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. If they wanted to pray, if they wanted ashes traced on their foreheads, we would be by the big Home Depot sign. All were welcome.
We finished our rounds and stood waiting.
No one moved.
Across the lot, I noticed a cluster of day laborers watching us. Curious, maybe cautious. I caught one man’s eye and smiled. I lifted my hand in a quick wave, the kind that says, You’re safe. He nudged the others. And then, like a quiet decision made all at once, they began walking toward us.
Br. Tim started the prayer.
We needed a volunteer for the reading. One of the ladies, Nancy, stepped forward and proclaimed the words God has been whispering since the beginning: Return to me with your whole heart.
Return. Not earn. Not prove. Just return to me with your whole heart.
One by one they came forward. Boots slipping in mud. Rain beading on jackets. I pressed my thumb into ash, traced the cross on each forehead, and said in my poor Spanish, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Their faces were solemn. There was something dignified there. The shuffle of bodies became a procession. The muddy grass felt less like a margin and more like holy ground.
We were nearly finished when I saw the security guard walking toward us.
I felt it rise in me. Oh man, here we go.
He approached slowly. Removed his hat. Lifted his eyes and asked, “Could I have ashes too?”
And suddenly there were no margins, no property lines, no us and them.
Just dust.
Just belonging.
And the Spirit telling us: Return to me with your whole heart.
This invitation from God can be an intimidating proposition at times, to truly give God our whole heart. But we are strengthened by the knowledge that He trusts us with His whole heart.
Jesus says to each of us, here is my whole heart. Take it. Make it yours.
What do we have to be afraid of? God is never outdone in Love.
Even if your ashes have long since faded, or if you missed Ash Wednesday entirely, the grace that Lent offers is still fully available to you now. Because time and again the lesson we need to learn is that this Christian life is not about our human perfection but His divine mercy. The God who asks for our whole heart only does so because He has first given us His complete love.