It has come roughly five thousand miles to settle upon the hilly farmland where I live and (try to) breathe. Dry, powdery dust has wafted all the way from the African Sahara to limit visibility, and respiration, here on my home acres. Only God knows the number of those departed who have lent their own dust to the Saharan cloud, but it dims the sunlight like a partial eclipse. It induces me to remember I’m dust, myself. My frame is dry bones. The dust is inescapable. It is mortality.
Yet, dust and fleeting things are only what I consist of in this plane of earthly existence. The dust is moistened, and shaped, and fired. It is a clay vessel, my anatomy is, and inside the clay shell burns a flame. Burns a flame and shines a light. This to show that it’s not me but God, has the power, for only He can make that kind of fire and this form of light. (2 Corinthians 4:7)
So, it doesn’t worry me that my dusty clay is fragile and dying, for I know that the small flame and the light that is me, is completely precious to Him, as is yours, dear reader. It is treasured and kept safe in its own sacred place, away from all dust, and protected from death in His very heart.
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Alone in the Rockies.
Gloryteller 