In Dust and Glory: Chapter 2

Preface

In Dust and Glory began with a single moment: Christ stepping into a life carefully built on pride, fear, and good intentions.

That first scene became Altars, a short story that later inspired my longer project, Cataract. While Cataract delves into the deeper battles within, this trilogy offers a condensed, symbolic reflection of the journey I believe many of us face in our walk with Christ.

Each chapter in this trilogy reveals a part of that journey—not with explanations, but with story. What we call loss, God may call mercy. What we see as ruin, He may see as the beginning of restoration.

This is a story of undoing.
And rebuilding.
In dust—and in glory.

Ruins

He’s gone.

The silence presses in around me. No footsteps. No breath. Not even the faintest echo of His presence remains.

Only me.
Me and the wreckage.

The pride is still here—just not on a pedestal.
It’s in pieces on the floor.
Splinters. Dust. A smear of ash on the wall where once a banner hung.

I thought it would feel like loss.
It feels more like exposure.
Like someone ripped the roof off and let the heavens stare straight through me.

I step carefully now.
The sharp remains of my old ambitions bite at my soles.
It’s strange—I never noticed how fragile they were until they shattered.

I kneel, mostly out of exhaustion.
My knees land in the rubble of what used to be the altar of Desire.
So many whispered prayers poured out there…
So many promises made to myself.
And now, it’s nothing more than a pile of promises unkept.

What was I even building?

For a moment, I press my forehead to the floor.
The dust clings to my skin like shame.

These chains again.
He didn’t put them on me—but somehow, they’re tighter now than before.
I tug at them, weakly. They don’t budge.

I don’t cry. Not yet.
I think I’m still too proud for that.

But I whisper something.
Something like a prayer.
Not one of those polished ones I used to say in front of others.
This one is cracked.
Small.
Almost scared.

“If You’re still here… if You ever were… what was the point of all this?”

There’s no voice in reply.
No fire from heaven.
Just a small breeze that finds its way through the broken walls.
It’s cold. But not cruel.
It smells like rain. Like a promise that something will grow again.

I look around.
Everything’s ruined.
But strangely, the ground looks… softer now.
As if the destruction has stirred something deep beneath the surface.

I sit there for a long time.
Long enough for the dust to settle on my shoulders like a cloak.
Long enough for the weight of what’s gone to give way to a new kind of ache.

A strange mixture of embarrassment, hunger, and defeat.

Tears and words spill out.
“I can’t fix this.”
“I don’t want to be the builder anymore.”
“Please… if You’re still here… help me.”