As a father has compassion on his children,
so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
And so the poetry of the Psalms leaves us with the assurance that God, the Creator, remembers our origin. His own hands reached down in the dust and formed a clay shell to bring us here. I find exquisite comfort tonight, in knowing that He remembers I am but bits of dust.
He remembers, in the middle of our suffering, that weak as we are, we can only withstand the burden for so long. He will never allow more than would crumble my fragile frame.
He remembers that the trail of tears down dusty faces, muddies our perceptions. We want to trust, but clay pots crack and so do our hearts.
He remembers when we boast and imagine ourselves invincible that we are dust, the makings of dirt. He smiles at us as a father does His children and knows that our very breath does not come without His gentle exhale.
He remembers when we fail him that it is hard being us. Though he never allows the mar of dirty sin from dusty people, He makes a way, through his Son to clothe us spotless white.
We are dusty people, and He, a compassionate God. He will not forget you. Where you are now, in your sin, in your sadness, He remembers you. As He blows the dust away, the Father kisses the face of His child.