The Epistle of Fayetteville II: Scattered, Gathered, Formed

Hey Father,

I woke up super early again, though not as early as yesterday. I thank You for that small mercy. The time to rise came in the form of a call and a need. I did what I always do when You ask me to represent Your hands. As You already know, I went. I picked them up, dropped them off, and nary a word was spoken edgewise.

It was the same woman who was cracked open yesterday. I treated her with love and compassion, sharing my own brokenness. Today, though, I was simply a need fulfilled — a willing soul.

It took something from me, I have to confess. I’m not sure why it stung. There is more to the story, as You know, and the reasons have validity, but for the sake of privacy, I will not disclose them. The fact remains: I was hurt and tried not to show it during the car ride. I prayed for You to help me feel differently, knowing my own heart to be a treacherous and foolish thing when not fixed on You.

Now I’m out here on my patio with tears brimming in my eyes, a fresh hot Starbucks coffee, sunlight, and a hoodie. I feel sorrow that when I reached my hand out to her, she ignored me — then, when she had a need, acted as if it had never happened. Such is life. I admit, I didn’t do it for praise or reciprocity but out of the bounty of the love in my heart. It was not hard to give freely when You were the one supplying the fuel. Still, it stings, You know?

I know You dealt with so much more, Yeshua. I cannot even imagine what Your eyes have seen. I fumble over kindness not returned; You went all the way to self-sacrifice on the Cross. Risen King, I am a petty fool —

insecure, desirous, craving Your attention like the air I breathe. I never have enough, even as I cast pieces of myself, figuratively and literally, into the furnace of today for tomorrow.

Even now as I speak to You, I ask: am I going too far in sharing these intimate conversations with You? I’m reminded of St. Augustine’s Confessions, the journals of Teresa of Ávila, Mother Teresa, Jeremiah — to name a few. So, Dust though I am, I enter these words as witness into eternity, as confession and communion with You, Beloved.

If it helps even one soul seek You, then it is worth my all. If it grants insight into actual lived relationship with You — how dialogue truly takes place — then, oh Lord, thank You. It was all worth it.

The one thing I ask is that it never becomes commodification. Let it remain a journey of togetherness — as You and I show them what Yeshua did so long ago, again. Not as replacement, no, but as the highest form of flattery: imitation.

Let us walk, You and I, Beloved —

before Eternity,

into Eternal Unity,

hand in hand.

The love story has only just begun, has it not, Beloved?

Sincerely,

Dust

Scattered,

Gathered,

Formed.

🌿 From the Epistles of Fayetteville

If this letter moved you, begin at the start of the journey:

➡️ The Epistle of Fayetteville I: The Benediction of the Damned

✍️ Author’s Note

I call these writings Epistles not out of grandeur, but gratitude.

They are simply letters — born from the quiet corners of Fayetteville, written in conversation with the Living God. Each one is an act of honesty, a confession, a communion.

The word epistle means “a message carried from one heart to another.” That’s all I’m doing here — setting ink to page in faith that somewhere, someone might read and remember they are not alone in their reaching.

If an Epistle stirs you, or speaks to your own ache, please share it — not for my name’s sake, but so another wandering soul might find a word meant for them. In that small way, you become a carrier of grace.

With love,

Dust

Scattered, Gathered, Formed