We Are But Dust

“Now King David was old and advanced in years. And although they covered him with clothes, he could not get warm.”

1 Kings 1:1

My mama knew how to hold back my hair in just the right ways.  She was the kind of mama who brought tea on trays, who spread sheets on the couches and sat to enjoy eight straight hours of Anne Shirley with her daughter when a stomach bug would keep me home from school.  She knew how to rest her palm on my forehead when I bent over the porcelain bowl, how to keep the loose strands from my braids out of my face.  She was cool and gentle, the perfect nurse.

I can’t help but think of her when I nurse my children now.  When soft words soothe from my lips, my ears hear her voice.  Remembering intensely the comfort she brought, I try to give the same.

This evening we’re all still sick around here.  I’m fighting my own round.  And as I lay with the crude reminders of my humanity, something about the words from 1 Kings affect my soul. “Even David, Lord,” I think. “Even David.”

Even David, with all his bearing.  Even David, the mighty king.  Even David, man after God’s own heart, the anointed and called of the Lord.  Even David.

Stretched out on his bed, covered in multitudes of rich and kingly layers, even David could not get warm, and needed comfort.

We are but dust.

Lord, you have been our dwelling place
in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
or ever you had formed the earth and the world,
from everlasting to everlasting you are God.

You return man to dust
and say, “Return, O children of man!”
For a thousand years in your sight
are but as yesterday when it is past,
or as a watch in the night.

You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,
like grass that is renewed in the morning:
in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
in the evening it fades and withers.

For we are brought to an end by your anger;
by your wrath we are dismayed.
You have set our iniquities before you,
our secret sins in the light of your presence.

For all our days pass away under your wrath;
we bring our years to an end like a sigh.
The years of our life are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
they are soon gone, and we fly away.
Who considers the power of your anger,
and your wrath according to the fear of you?

So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom.
Return, O LORD! How long?
Have pity on your servants!
Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
and for as many years as we have seen evil.
Let your work be shown to your servants,
and your glorious power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
and establish the work of our hands upon us;
yes, establish the work of our hands!

Psalm 90

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Tonight I have been moved to tears by this post by Katie at Prime Periwinkle.

Even so, Lord, Come.

(Day 28 of the Writing Challenge; where I’m “Just Writing” daily for 31 days.)