D.L.

Ashes to ashes.

I say those words every time I have to officiate a funeral. Dust to dust still echoes in my mind, as if it were yesterday. Perhaps that is only natural, given how recently I remembered Keith’s service of celebration.

But dust—what is it? I know its biological components, and I could research and explore its composition, but that is not what resonates with me right now.

At this point in my life, having watched my son die peacefully, dust has taken on another significance. I could say that it has a deeper meaning or that I am experiencing a new revelation. But right now, I find that dust really bothers me.

I am in Chile, and I had forgotten how dusty this place is, especially around my dad’s house! I lived here for the first nineteen years of my life, and it never bothered me. But now, dust is everywhere. It is on my shoes and on the clothes I am wearing. It gathers quickly inside the car, and if I walk around the front garden, it is there, too.

So what?

That is the question: so what? Here, dust is so natural, so much a part of the landscape, that no one gives it a second thought. But I do, because it reminds me of the pain I am trying so hard to cope with.

How is it that something so ordinary and so common can unsettle me and trigger such strong emotions?

I think I stopped being religious some time ago, and I do not want to attribute a religious meaning to all of this. Yet I feel trapped. On the one hand, I can cite a Bible verse and justify theologically the meaning of dust according to the Scriptures. On the other hand, I can slow down, allow myself to breathe, just as I told my son Keith to do so many times when he was in great pain.

I can create space between each breath that fills my lungs with air and invite the presence of the Holy Spirit to fill me. I can allow Him to settle me, to centre me, and to remind me that, even in my pain, I am not alone.

I am surrounded by dust. Some of it needs to be wiped away, especially from the car, the tops of my books, the TV, and the bookshelves. But I cannot get rid of it forever. It will always be there, whether I like it or not.

So dust reminds me of myself. I am dust, and dust itself is matter; it is not a living organism. I am dust that creeps everywhere, constantly needing to be wiped away and cleaned. If I am not careful, I can allow the dust to settle and form layer upon layer until it becomes so thick that it covers a surface and makes it disappear.

Keith loved books, and before he died, he told me that I could keep his. I am so thankful for that. Dust is gathering on his bookshelf, just as it does on mine, and I need to clean it away to preserve his books and keep them looking nice and neat.

I am discovering, as I grieve, that I need to be careful not to let my pain become like a layer of dust that eventually covers me until, somehow, I disappear beneath it.

I am dust. We are dust. We are made of dust.

In Genesis, we read that God created us from the dust of the ground. We are of the earth; we are earthly, made of finite substance. It is only when the Spirit of God breathes life into us that we become living beings. We are alive because of the Spirit of God.

I need His Spirit. We need His Spirit. The reality is that we are returning to the dust. That was not the original plan. We are returning to it because of the utterly senseless and deadly nature and power of sin.

Experiencing the death of my son has made me realise just how finite we are. I am experiencing a grief I did not know existed. It is deep, painful, and, honestly, sometimes unbearable.

But I need the Spirit of God to sustain me, to keep me from being buried beneath layers of pain. Just as dust has the potential to blind me, grief can cloud my vision and prevent me from seeing the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

This is my reality now: a life marked by suffering, yet seasoned with God’s goodness and hope.

Slowly but surely, I am beginning to experience the power of these words from Isaiah 25:8:

“He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the LORD has spoken.” (Isaiah 25:8, ESV)

This Lord is Jesus, as Keith reminded me during his short illness, is the one who matters. I can still hear him saying to me: “Dad, it is Jesus”.