46,080 Minutes: Dust

" Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being." Genesis 2:7

The ground jerked beneath me. I tightened my grip on the bar above me to keep my balance. The scents of trash, sewage, Indian street cuisine, and human body odor all rushed by me as we entered a cloud of dust.

Through the dust, I scanned the many faces around me. I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt and wondered what their lives were like. What pains did they experience? What joys did they remember? What did they strive for?

The bus' horn blared. I grimaced at the assaulting sound. I decided they use horns way too much in India and considered my present situation.

My fellow class mates and I had just finished a weekend of ministry in the heart of Chennai. Now we rode public transportation through the congested veins of this great Indian city. The college remained only an hour away... hopefully.  

Freddy, my friend from the North, stood a few inches in front me. The grind of the bus' gears greeted my ears as Freddy smiled at me. His eyes bore a weariness that we shared. I smiled back.

To my right a baby reached across his mother's shoulder for the stranger behind him. The man smiled and tickled the baby's little hand. The baby's eyes grew wide and an expression of wonder crossed its face.

To my left sat an elderly woman. Her eyes were closed and her nearly toothless mouth open. Her head bobbed loosely as the bus bumped violently along the road.

I could see the beauty of God's creation here in this place in the faces of these people, but in my soul I sighed. So many people surrounded me and I knew that very few understood the truth of their existence. I devoted myself to prayer. That's all I knew to do.

An hour and half later we arrived at the gate of the school. I immediately went to my room and took a shower. My body felt dirty. Chennai boasted streets covered in garbage, dirt, and refuse and I had been walking them throughout the day.

As I scrubbed, I noticed that my ears held a lot of dust and an unexpected thought occurred to me. The thought captivated my mind...

Dust. It seems so meaningless, but it holds a story. How often do we wonder about the complexity of the tale of simple dust?

The dust in my ear has been around since the creation of the world. Over the centuries this dust could have once been a person, a tree, or a dog with a story to tell. But now,  it is only dust.

Dust can have a complex history.

I paused in the shower.

Dust. I am made of dust. Maybe even parts of my physical makeup were once another person. Perhaps, written in the molecules of my atomic structure, are the stories of a thousand different people who have all gone from this world.

I turned the shower off and began drying myself with a towel.

Who are we? We are people made of dust. People who are born, die, yearn, enjoy pleasure, endure pain, suffer hunger, but, ultimately, we are made of dust. Just dust... or... maybe more.

I remembered the truth of Genesis 2.

But each one of us is uncommon. Dust comprises our bodies, but God specifically gathered that dust in His hands to sculpt us. He made us in His very image. God also breathed into us. He gave us souls.

Again, I remember those people on the bus. The baby, the old lady, the stranger, Freddy, and many others I saw today.

Each were composed of a similar substance to the dust that inhabited my ear, but they are worth so much more. Do they realize this?

*****

I'm flabbergasted at how great God is and how great He has created us. But I am saddened that many of God's creations will return to dust without knowing why they breathe.

I believe this thought is what troubled me on the bus today.

In India, in America, and in the entire world people are returning to dust without knowing. . .

Do you know? I hope so. If not, my prayers are for you. God in his great grace has shown me the truth. I hope you see it in my life because I want you to know too. Please, being just dust is meaningless. Don't you think there is something more?

If you do know the truth, do you live in it? It is easy to forget even when we say we never do. We are not just dust, though our story will one day be written in the history of dust.

What will your story be?

Will your story be about your zeal for football (American or Indian)? Will you story be about your desire for newer and fancier things? Will you story be about hopelessness and earthly gain?

Or will your story be written about your love for Christ and, better yet, His love for you?

You get to live your story, but be weary. One day you will leave this earth and return to dust. I hope you know and never forget why you breathe.