I am back home after a week of travel to Georgia and Texas.

One of the gifts of my time away was venturing to the hospital to visit and bless a sweet little 2-day old baby. He was tightly swaddled, sound asleep, so fresh in this world that waited a very patient 41 weeks for his arrival. I listened to his parents, dear friends of mine, recount the story of his birth. Every birth story is a messy miracle. Whether it is the birth of a person, animal, organization or idea. Birth is a messy miracle.

A few days after meeting this fresh expression of God’s presence among us, I found myself sitting in the pews of my childhood church, attending my grandfather’s funeral. I had not worshipped in this church since my grandmother’s funeral over a decade ago, and yet I know this sanctuary like I know the back of my own hand. I climbed the steps to the choir loft, sat in my old assigned seat, and looked to the stained-glass window at the back of the church. I love this window. It is a simple image of an empty cross, but it is surrounded by a huge canvas of light. When I was a young chorister, I would imagine my voice carrying all the way back to that brilliant cross of color and sunlight.

I was not with my grandfather when he died, and so his death does not yet seem real. It still feels like he’s just two flights away in West Texas. I wish I had been with him.

Some people avoid death—being close to it or even talking about it. When Jay and I met with an attorney to write our Last Will and Testament, shortly after our first child was born, we tried to talk to our parents about their end-of-life plans. One set of parents still refuses to have that conversation with us.

I think I understand why people may make that choice. Death is hard. We cannot imagine the world without the presence of the person we love, so we choose not to. And yet, death is part of life. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Lent reminds us that death is part of life.

And like birth, death is a messy miracle. It is messy because death leaves a mess others must care for—a mess of logistics and a mess of emotions. (The logistics are less messy if we care to talk about them!) Death is a miracle because of the hope we share in the Paschal Mystery—our hope of eternal life in the risen Christ. And it is a miracle because somehow, we do carry on with a life that is “changed, not ended.” Even when the grief is unbearable, we somehow wake up every morning to a new day that is both horrible and beautiful, until the horror slowly subsides, and the beauty grows brighter. New life—resurrection.

As we near Holy Week, I pray that you would gaze upon the messy miracle of death, not unlike how easily and lovingly we behold the messy miracle of birth. May you remember that you are dust, and your loved one is dust, not with fear and trepidation, but with tenderness and awe. And may you find Jesus, who goes before you, reminding you that nothing can separate us from the love of God, and you are never alone.