We were made from dust, from the grit of the earth. We are ashes and dirt, windblown, movable. We are tossable, whether by the Spirit, self-created definitions, or by every wind of doctrine. Dust can be fickle. We are granular. We rub each other raw. Sometimes we find ourselves like sandpaper on skin. Dust can be an irritant, but it also smooths the edges; it exposes the grain of the rough-hewn.
Dust is easily swept away, easily emptied from a pan. I’ve seen this, too. Amber takes the broom and gathers up our ancestors, flings them out the back door. We can be so dismissive of one another.
We were made from the dust, from the grit of the earth. It is no wonder that smallness is embedded in our DNA.
For my good friends, the ones going through their respective rough patches. As a mentor of mine once said, “the farmer plants a seed, but when the seed doesn’t grow the farmer doesn’t cuss the dirt.”