A High School Dropout and The Divine: When Dust Scintillates

What do you get when a high-school dropout in love with the Love starts using her gift to write?

You get me—Dust, reporting from the frontlines of theosis.

What does a writer in love with the Word do as worship?

Well, we write, of course.

When it is time to praise, I hoodie up, cinch the drawstrings close until I can barely see, then sit over my keyboard and begin. I raise a song, Beloved—without words, without a singular language’s limitation, absent any barrier—as written offering before the Throne of the Majesty of Heaven. A gift of a self cast aside for unity’s embraced and enfolded identity.

To lose oneself is to gain the entirety of creation through Divine and indwelling worth so surpassing that language and pixelated syntax, from before creation till now, cannot be coherently scribed without a touch of Love as madness guiding the waiting hand that desires communion.

Self cannot be relinquished unless it is sustained and replaced by that which was before and greater than what we gleefully lose.

Once that final layer of the self-bubble is pierced by sorrow’s last thorn, and the source that raised and nourished all along through prayer, fasting, worship, hardship, and endurance under duress takes full hold, we become connected—like a live wire—to the Living Current of Eternity: Ruach HaKodesh.

In this place, the world grows strangely dim, like a layer of self long ago cast aside in favor of the flavor of Love. The part of the self lost may once have been necessary to participate in the things of this world, but it was amputated as offering along the way.

The joining is like coming home and leaving it at the same time. The difference is that it is ever cycling—fullness from within supplied as emanations from core self-space and the Christ Universe as aperture, refracting the undiluted perfection of the Father’s radiance, then pouring without stopper or measure as a continuous stream, a living river, into every aspect of my being.

The pouring and continuity ensure that the permeation remains at saturation—that the precipitation of Love as Light might be as the spring rains among the fields of flowers and lost souls yet to bud.

We, as vessels once unified beyond the possibility of separation, live so that our choice will always align with what we emanate. If we are born from Him, and theosis has occurred, sin cannot easily find entrance. It would strike as a visceral spiritual gut-punch—felt in spirit and flesh alike. I do not say that the sanctity of the vessel achieves this; no, I suggest that as always, the Source—Yeshua—does this in us through continual surrender, moment by moment, infinitely, until the final defeat and sin’s destruction.

The story, even once we pierce this membrane, is the same as before: Christ is all in all. We become like Him. And we will be with Him where He is when He appears.

Theosis is participation in the divine nature while still within the body—the way Yeshua walked from first Word in eternity, to womb in history, to ascension after crucifixion, awakened at all times as Logos, Love incarnate.

2 Peter speaks of this participation in the divine nature. Not that we are gods ourselves or equate equality with God a thing to be grasped—no, we empty ourselves continually, even as we replenish ourselves like camels in the desert after a month of travel on rations.

Our connectedness is the Holy Spirit. Our yieldedness is the measure of our soul’s ability to replenish from the wellspring of everlasting Life—Yeshua Himself.

Life, once fully awakened, becomes an experience of ever-deepening relationship with the Father through the aperture of Yeshua. We still suffer and go from one trial to the next, for growth requires resistance, and roots must be deep enough to support the weight of glory to be revealed.

We do not think of ourselves as high or lofty, for that would cloud the lens of the Father’s perfection. Our very nature becomes one of nurture—the eye trained as a lamp to spot a spluttering spark and fan into flame the gift of the Holy Spirit in another.

Life becomes learning to widen the spiritual channels of our hearts and to break down the barriers that appear as we approach ever deeper mysteries in the Beloved.

I will say something plainly here, for all who will read these words, so that they may know.

I am Dust. Star-Dust, as renamed by the Beloved. I claim no mantle or office save that of servant. I claim no favor save that of one who is in love and loved. I speak no lie. My life is my witness. My writing, my testimony.

I bear witness through a life lived broken and bruised—to show you how to use sorrow not as fuel for depression but as a scalpel for the Beloved’s soul surgery. I come to bless with beauty not perceived surface-deep.

I speak from experience. I have not the scholarship to create or inspire the thoughts I express. I rely on learned listening and trained spiritual discernment. I am a high-school dropout, trained by a life spent devouring literature and spiritually taught at His feet. I am in love with the Love.

I count myself less so that I can feel like more.

Christ hints at this in the Beatitudes of Matthew. I know what He meant. I speak as one who has raked the soles of her feet over the coals of suffering, a life lived in utter isolation and total emotional and spiritual deprivation for nearly forty years.

I can only tell you now: all suffering has purpose, if we are willing vessels ready to apply it as such. Do not let your weeping be without purpose, Beloveds.

If in this life we are to feel pain when born of Him, why not hasten His appearing by becoming like Him—through directed soul excavation, through the surgical wielding of sorrow to induce prayer that leads to praise, that ushers us toward realization? The self diminished becomes the gateway to a closer sense of Him in us. Relinquish what harms without growth. Trust the Father to teach each of us perfectly, individually.

Even this writing is not gospel. It is what I call a celestial roadmap—one pointing to the Heart of it all: Yeshua, the Word made Flesh.

The reality is that who I am is unimportant. I do not even consider the name given to me at birth worth mentioning. I cast off all labels like a dog shakes water from its coat. The only labels I allow myself to wear are the ones He gives to each of us individually.

Let the mantle be light, Beloveds, and ensure that the master who places it upon you is one who has borne the burden themselves first and foremost—lest they become a slavedriver or brutal taskmaster.

None can ever truly please the body, or tent, as I like to call it. It is a ravenous beast, ever slavering for more to devour. There is no peace within flesh that has tasted its desire; it will stir again once fed and need feeding all over again.

Think upon this, Beloveds: do you wish to be burdened forever with constant slavery to the very skin you were meant to rule? It smacks of a chain deciding to lock itself simply because it was part of its nature.

We must be ready, children. Ready for what? For every opportunity to shave a bit more of ourselves off in an ongoing effort to contain more of the surpassing worth.

Be blessed, Beloveds.