The world is a hot mess right now. I am not sure there is a better way to say that. Everything feels upside down and unbelievable. Pope Francis declared a jubilee year of hope; now he’s praying for a world praying for him in a hospital bed. And this week, in my tradition, we enter into another Lenten season, being marked with ashes for repentance and for humility – and for hope.

As I notice the age lines on my hands and the single gray hairs that keep popping up amongst my reddish curls, I am also deepening my appreciation for ashes. After everything burns to the ground, ashes are what remains.

My littlest child came home from school last week telling me all about volcanoes. About how they erupt and everything is destroyed. And then I met someone new who traveled to a country that had suffered a tragic volcanic eruption. They were hauling the ash out by the truckload for fertilizer. Because volcanic ash contains the minerals needed to replenish soil for new growth.

In the end of her book, Daring Greatly, Brené Brown argues that hope is a function of struggle. She reminds her daughter and the rest of us that we lean into hope when we can remember that we have done difficult things in the past and survived. If we never struggle and find our way, we do not develop the muscles of hope.

In Romans 5:3-4, Paul puts this another way: “we boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” I do not want this to be true, but over and over again, my life bears witness to it. Living through struggle becomes the stuff of hope.

Hope is a gift, a “feathered things with wings” as Emily Dickinson wrote. It is a divine promise that new life will follow after the worst things: “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). It is a delicate idea that eludes my grasp and holds my heart.

And Caitlin Seida has also spoken truth when she counters that hope is a “sewer rat.” Virtues are not just lofty ideals but heroic efforts made by scrappy and imperfect people. So then, hope is both marking myself with ashes and doing the work that leads to growth.

Whether I am singing in church or rooting around in the dumpster trying to find the-most-important-thing-that-we-accidentally-threw out this week, there are piles of ashes and reasons to hope. There is cleaning up to do and sunlight misting through foggy ice crystals on the drive home. Hope is an exercise I have to do moment by moment, believing deeply in my bones that our lives matter and our world is worth it.

Hope is whispering prayers for the suffering and showing up with a candle. It is falling into my bed, exhausted and crying out all the tears. It is booking the appointment with my doctor and therapist. Hope looks like writing the letter. Signing the petition. Digging the grave that becomes a well.

Too often, I spend so much time trying to prevent everything from falling apart, as though I could stop the inevitable eruption. It is a sign of my misunderstanding of the value of the ashes.

The weeping and the sack cloth, they are necessary parts of the grieving. They are the signs of the depth of love, the indicators of what has been lost. The markers of the strength that will rise.

Because it is only when we understand suffering in our marrow that we can withstand the fortitude it takes to (re)build something that will also not be permanent. To live in hope is to practice loving – moment by precious moment – a world that is always and ever passing away.

We are dust, and to dust we shall return. And an arm pressed against my back with love when I have failed holds all the miracles of the universe. I am sifting fistfuls of ashes for every ounce of hope for this extraordinary world.