Learn more about our faith | Why pray?
A few years ago, a hospice nurse shared a story about a patient named Margaret. Margaret had no family, no accolades, no social media presence. But in her final days, she handed the nurse a worn-out journal. Inside were close to a thousand names—people she had prayed for daily, strangers she had read about in news clippings, neighbors she had silently helped. “I wanted my life to be a quiet, silent song,” she wrote, “not a noisy performance.”
When she died, the nurse said the room felt holy, as if “the walls had absorbed decades of whispers to God.” Margaret’s journal is what Ash Wednesday looks like when it bleeds into real life: secret and sacred but surprisingly alive.
Today, Jesus warns us not to turn faith into a theater act. “When you pray, go into your room. When you fast, wash your face. When you give, don’t let your left hand know what your right is doing.” In other words—Hide your holiness. Not because God is stingy with His grace but because love grows best in the dark, like seeds in the soil.
A rabbi once said, “Prayer is not about changing God. It’s about being changed by God.” A teacher I know spends her lunch breaks sitting in her car, praying for students by name. No one knows. But a troubled kid left a note on her desk last year: “I felt like someone was fighting for me.” That’s the power of secret prayer—it’s a rebellion against despair. Try a 10-minute Challenge: Ten minutes a day, no words. Just sit with God. Let Him rearrange your chaos.
Fasting isn’t about punishing your body; it’s about freeing your soul. A recovering addict once told me that he gave up alcohol for Lent. But what healed him was fasting from shame—I stopped apologizing for existing, he says. That was the beginning of his recovery,” Jesus says, “Anoint your head.” Don’t let your fast make you miserable. Let it make you merciful. Fast from resentment. Fast from scrolling. Fast from the need to be correct. This Lent: Choose a “heart fast.” What inner clutter starves your joy? Let it go.
In 2020, a Chicago diner kept finding anonymous envelopes with cash and the note: “For anyone who needs a meal.” The owner said, “It felt like God’s grace was a regular visitor there.” That’s almsgiving Jesus-style—sneaky, joyful, and untraceable. The Kingdom of God is built by people who don’t stay for the credit.
Today, we’re marked with ashes in public to remind us that holiness happens in private. The cross on your forehead isn’t for your Instagram story. It’s a tattoo for your soul, saying: “I’m imperfect. I’m returning. I’m His. These ashes we will wear aren’t a badge of honor. They’re a filter for the soul, saying, “Without God, I am dust.” But here’s the twist: Dust isn’t the end. In Genesis, God breathes into dust and creates life. These ashes are an invitation: Let God breathe on your dust. Let Him turn your brokenness into a beginning.
In the 4th century, monks fled cities to the desert to pray in solitude. When admirers trekked to their caves seeking wisdom, the monks often sighed and said, “Go home. Love your family. Tend your garden. The real desert is where you are.” This Lent, you don’t need a cave. Just a corner. A closet. A quiet heart.
As you receive ashes today, imagine God whispering, “Let’s build something beautiful in secret. You and Me.” This gives you the road ahead, which isn’t about proving your faith. It’s about re-discovering your faith. Go. Hide your holiness. Watch it grow in silence.
Father Boby John, C.S.C., ordained a priest in the Congregation of Holy Cross in 2008, worked as a pastor and an educator with tribal populations in Northeast India for thirteen years. Originally from Kerala, India, Father Boby grew up with his parents and three siblings. He is a dedicated and detailed educationist with a Master's degree in Educational Management and is pursuing a PhD in Educational Leadership. He is currently working as the Co-Director of Family Rosary, USA, and as the chaplain at the world headquarters of Holy Cross Family Ministries, North Easton, Massachusetts.
