It happened to me again. I had been beaten. I was weary. I had been hit so hard—right in the face. I fell to my knees and cried, and as I looked up, horror replaced my tears. I was all alone. It made no sense. It was so meaningless. And yet, here I was again. Why had I put myself in this position? He walked closer to me. I couldn’t escape. He put his hand on my head and marked my forehead. Then he said those words: “From dust you came; to dust you shall return.”

And so I died…again. It happens every year. And every year, I realize how I have failed once more. And I am reminded that there is hope in spite of me. I am a marked man. And even though that ashen cross fades from my forehead within a few hours, I remember when I was marked with the Cross of Christ at baptism. And I carry that cross—for awhile. And then I fall. And on my knees, I hear his voice yet again, “Remember, from dust you came; to dust you shall return.” And I wonder why I so often fail to hear God’s voice.

The story goes that a scientist was visiting his sister, who lived in a big city. As they were walking down the street, he said, “It’s wonderful that you have Black Wood Crickets here.” His sister replied, “How can you hear a cricket in the midst of all this noise?” He responded, “I guess you only hear what’s important to you.” The sister promptly took a quarter out of her pocket and bounced it on the concrete. And in the midst of that busy sidewalk, where people were walking obliviously, everyone stopped and looked around on the ground. “I guess you’re right,” said the sister.

Why is it that we would never miss the sound of a quarter bouncing on the street, but we so often miss the voice of God? While most of the time, the Church asks us to rejoice in the Resurrection, the Church asks us to spend Lent remembering that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. “Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live” (Isaiah 55:3).