I used to hate dirt.
No, that’s not true.
As a young child, I would go outside to make mud pies, then come in crying because I was dirty. My mom would wash off the dirt and change my clothes, and I’d go right back out to play in the mud. Not long after, I’d come back in, crying once again.
I hated being dirty. But I loved playing in the dirt.
When we first moved to Massachusetts, playing in the dirt became my lifeline. Once winter hit, I’d dream of summer. That time of year when I could plant seeds and watch my garden grow. Come January, I’d order packets of seeds and plan my rows. I may not have had any friends, but I had dirt. I vowed to find beauty in this land I despised. To bloom where I was planted. To plant what I could grow.
Playing in the dirt gave me solace when nothing else could. It reminded me of home. Although the dirt in New England is vastly different from the red clay mud of my Georgia home, dirt is all around.
New England dirt is black—the color of ink. It sifts through my hands like grains of salt. When wet, it attaches to bare feet like wet playdough attaches to hands. When dry, it moves easily, leaving traces of black in the crevices of your toes for days to come. Not like the red clay of Georgia that feels so hard to pry up and stays in clumps when you’re finally able to dig in.
The dirt may be different, but it is still dirt. It provides us ground to walk on, to sit on, to lay back and adore the clouds. In my loneliness, I learned to embrace the dirt. I began to find joy in the dirtiest of places.
Dirt grounded me when my world felt like a top spinning out of control.
It’s no wonder that playing in the dirt brings us so much joy. Dirt is what we’re all made up of. God grabs a chunk of dirt, forms it, and breathes life into it. And here we are.
Maybe it’s in the dirt that we find ourselves most true to who God created us to be. Maybe it’s dirt that cleanses our soul—even as it leaves our bodies full of dust. Maybe dirty toes are the best implication of a life well lived. A life closest to God.
Maybe the dirt that clings to us is our best reminder of God’s fingerprints all over each one of us.
I still hate being dirty. But I’m learning to embrace it. Because in being dirty, I’m finding myself closer to who I am truly meant to be. I’m finding myself closer to God.