The Dust Collector's Daughter: A Lesson in Coming Home

Today I sat across the table of a cozy restaurant with no expectations.
I knew at the end of the day I'd have a new friend, but I knew nothing of what the beginning would do to the end, or that this, this day, would prove to be the best, and most beautiful since I moved to Virginia in August of 2009.
Tomorrow is National Adoption Day, and thousands of once orphaned, abandoned, or otherwise cast aside children will find themselves with new names and new families. Today, in a different sort of way, I was one of them. It occurred to me on this unforgettable November day that I'm a pile of undeniably redeemed dust. Dust breathed upon, adopted, and sacrificed for in ways beyond my very mortal comprehension.

The image of God is so exquisitely vast that I am continually baffled by how beautiful each little piece of that image is.
My life is continually changed by people being stitched into my tapestry, some for days, some forever, every one of them mightily important.
Today, it so happened that my life got altered. No joke. I went in with no expectations, and came out with the same thing, but in between the two I received the most exquisite set of moments I've been given in a very long time.

Obedience. Try it, I dare you, blow on a pile of dust, and see what happens. It will, no doubt, obey your breath. It will move. So it is as a servant of the Most High, as an heir apparent, as a Dweller in His Court. It's similar to blowing on dust. Inspiration.
I thought about this today, and how, really what happened was, God went around collecting a bunch of dust, and then He blew on it. He loved what He saw so much that He died for it, and then He purposed each collection to an ordained calling. He carried the dust to a brutal death, and reconstructed each particle in order to make it exquisite and prepared.
Then, He called it His own. Today, I learned a lesson in coming home, and gained a sister in the most abundant way possible. I am still baffled, and more abundantly grateful than can be comprehended, but all will be adequately spoken at some point, if I ever find words.
I'm speechless 97% of the time as it is. But I will say this, dusty, though we are, it goes without saying that each one of us has the capacity to leave other people around us breathless and honor them with our presence.
Antiques are valuable for their age, and dust is valuable for the breath cast upon it to make it so. Dusty things get bought, provided they are somewhere intrinsically valued, and you, well, you are.
Bought, you were, and me too. So, to you, you once dusty orphan. You runner, you hider, you hurting, broken, lover, you fighter, you heart breaker, you mender. You dusty, weary, weeping orphan. Find rest in the hands of a Father who loves your dusty self. You choking, sobbing child, BREATHE...
Have you ever babysat a child who won't stop crying? Sometimes, they don't breathe. It's the worst feeling because...they...don't...breathe. They make no noise, they turn funny colors, and they look so sad and pitiful. I learned how to fix the problem early on. I remember it well. When I have a non-breather, I take them in my lap and pretend like I'm going to whistle, then I blow a gentle, even breath into that teary little face, and GASP... said child inhales after being a bit stunned by the cool air from my distant, but present, breath.
For I split second, the utter shock on that little face makes me laugh, and then I use it to my advantage, I tickle, and whatever hurt, saddened, or angered the cherub in my arms dissolves into a sweet melody of giggles.
So it is with us, the dusty orphans, the children of the Dust Collector, who makes us heirs to a kingdom which will never turn to dust.

No matter what, no matter where, I'll be most willing, I don't care.
I'm at His mercy, In His hands, and blessed to answer His commands.
I don't know much, but this I know, where He is, I want to go.
He gives, and gives, and gives again, the battle rages, He will win.
When this dusty orphan fell, He caught her, I am the Dust Collector's Daughter.



"For you have not been given the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you have been given the spirit of adoption, whereby, you may cry "Abba, Father." Romans 8:15

For All The Dusty Orphans,
Court