The horizon out my window appears fuzzy. Normally crisp hills and sharp trees now hazy and out-of-focus like the manual setting on my old Canon AE-1.

My wife told me it’s Sahara Desert dust. Sand of the African continent variety.

Evidently it started preparing for the trip last weekend and like a hurricane finally made landfall in the Gulf Coast yesterday. Decided the hill country needed a visit so here it is bringing no joy.

Pastors and dust run into each other principally at funerals. We recite God’s words from Genesis 3 reminding Adam’s offspring from dust we came and to dust we will return compliments of our founding relatives.

Our work is dusty. Our lives get dusty. Our end will be dusty. Literally.

If you choose cremation you’ll transform into about one pound of dust for every 29 pounds of breathing. Remove the water and you’re more Sahara than not.

The New Testament mentions dust mainly with shaking it off sandals. A modern-day washing your hands of the situation and moving on.

When the relationship ends dust is the metaphor. When the water leaves dust is all that remains.

Had Jesus remained in the tomb post Easter morning He, too, would have contributed to the soil and sand of the landscape round Jerusalem.

Instead in the near future He’ll gather up all the dusty remains that used to be us and mold them back into perfect you’s and perfect me’s.

No more shaking it off. No more waterless outcomes. Just crisp hills and sharp trees.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.