Love Letters of Dust:The Vanishing Act

Dear Beloved,

I put myself out there, You know. I was hurt once—profoundly—by superiority absent mercy. The second time came as I attempted to assist one who feels invisible. It came when she turned around and did the same—made me feel invisible in the same way—as I reached out my lonely hands in communal longing. I was not asking for anything but to chat or text. To be an ear to listen and allow the weight of her burden to shift a smidge to my shoulder.

I tried, You know? Genuinely and with an attempt at grounded presence filled with compassion. What can I do save slink away, hide my hazel haloed eyes beneath the edge of a tactically large hoodie pulled up to near invisibility.

What can I do but shrink back into my shadows?

I am hurt, Beloved.

Why must I vanish in front of the eyes of all save You?

Why must my attempts to make another seen make me vanish even more?

The weather matches my mood, like usual. It is raining in that slow, methodical way that comes only in early November—the hurricane season here in North Carolina. I feel a kind of sympathy for the clouds. How much sorrow must they contain to weep with such lavishness?

No thought or consideration to the emptiness of the heavenly well. It is almost as if the clouds themselves are aware of osmosis—the liquefaction of sadness as water and its rising as vapor—gathered once more, to be shared once more.

Similar to my lonely talks at near one-ten in the eve.

I wish things were simple.

I wish I knew how to obtain what I need to sustain, while not competing with that which inhabits the interior of my temple’s choir’s refrain—You.

Purely, unabashedly You.

So what can I say?

I’m sitting here letting my legs get wetter with each splashed drop of rain, thoroughly drenching my sweatpants while listening to worship music and writing my third or fourth piece today.

It all seems to me the aroma of You.

The days as they blend—loneliness in one moment, fullness in the next. There is a tension I feel in my bones that at times mirrors the weather: fickle, fleeting, then at once intense, heavy with that withheld sacredness of refracted Glory—held like a long, indrawn breath.

I am bowed down with revelation as witness to perfection.

I am not the worth; rather, the witness is the worth, and the writer merely the scribe of that which has intrinsic value within—You.

The lived perfection that can be found nowhere else, save in You.

I live to liquefy my flesh into translucence—moment by moment, day by day—in an ongoing effort to be a little bit more like You, Beloved.

I do it so that I might be a little better at holding the undiluted truth You offer from the Father. I must become as close to Your likeness as possible, so that I too might stand in the Stream and gaze at the Father with naked face and tent discarded.

I admit it is brazen.

I know I will never be allowed the sight You have.

Still—for me—it is enough to sit at Your feet and lovingly collect Your words as witnesses in eternity.

Let us, Your brides, become the scribes—annotating the very annals of sacred witness in beloved, foolish, naked devotion for You.

For the Name.

Yeshua.

Eternal Beloved of Dust.

Eternal Firstborn of Creation.

Risen King.

The Father incarnate.

All hail the Ancient of Days through the lens of His Beloved Son.

Amen.

I pray even as I clasp my hands and close my eyes in thankfulness before the Throne.

Sincerely,

Dust