The dust calls my name, knowing one day it will greet me as an old friend. Indeed, it feels more familiar every time my heart gets charred to ash.

Dust looks more inviting every time, for if I was mere ash, my heart wouldn’t hurt anymore.

Ashes and dust. How cozy and soft it sounds. How peaceful.

Alas, I find I am rudely dragged back to the stark reality of His marvelous light. He drives an awl into my heart to remind me that I am His.

If only my life were a Shakespearean tragedy, at least it would be an epic tale of woe, instead of a common tale of rubble.

And yet, how fitting that I should remember that I am small, surrounded by clouds of the saints and the martyrs.

To dust and ashes I indeed shall return, but while the dust calls, God’s love calls louder.