In Dust and Glory: Chapter 3

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.

Feast

I don’t know how long I stayed there—kneeling in the dust.

Eventually, I slept. Or maybe I just stopped thinking.

The dreams, if I had any, were quiet.

And then—

Light.

Not blinding.

Gentle. Like morning.

I blink.

The rubble is still here, but it’s different now.
It no longer looks like failure.
It looks like raw material.

And then I see Him.

He’s here. Again. Or maybe He never left.

There’s dirt on His hands.
His sleeves are rolled.
He’s working.

Not speaking. Just steady. Calm.

He’s laying something into the ground. Carefully. Purposefully.
He doesn’t use the old stones. He chooses new ones. Smoother. Warmer.

I should be angry. Or ashamed. Or hiding.

But all I feel is…

Longing.

The chains are gone. I don’t remember when they fell off—only that they are no longer here.

I open my mouth, but the only thing that comes out is:

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t stop working. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t explain.

Instead, He gestures.

To a chair.

A table.

A robe, folded neatly on the step.

A ring.

Shoes.

My voice cracks.

“I don’t deserve—”

But He’s already moving.
Already lifting the robe over my shoulders.
Already sliding the ring on my hand.

Not because I earned it.
But because I belong.

He sits across from me.

And for the first time, I notice the feast.

Not a banquet of excess—but of meaning.
Bread. Wine. Warmth. Laughter in the air, though I’m the only one here.

I think of the prodigal son.
How he rehearsed his apology.
How the Father interrupted with celebration.

I never understood that story until now.

I was dead.
And somehow—without my help—I’ve been made alive again.

He raises a cup to me.

Not as a guest.

As a son.

He builds no altars this time. Just a place to dwell.
This foundation is not made of pride, or fear, or desire.
It’s made of grace.
And this grace is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.