remember you are dust

The sound of rain is heavy on the roof as my pastor reads thoughts on life and death. I sit in the increasingly familiar magenta pew, sandwiched between my students, wishing I didn’t feel so fragile. Wishing I hadn’t spent the past day and a half wrestling with deep, old wounds that have resurfaced. Open and sore, rather than the shiny pink I would have assured you they were two days ago.

I look up from my lap, straining to hear the words read from the front. Thinking that if I just listen hard enough maybe I can wade through this issue and focus on my return to dust and dirt instead of the rawness of my wound...

You can find the rest of this post at A Deeper Story.