While telling a friend about my four-day weekend, which included a sudden jaunt to the hospital, three days on a stomach pump and a close encounter with surgery, I laughed at her response. For she told me about her dog, Pola, a beautiful Saluki.

“Now, this is entirely off the subject,” she said (clever woman that she was), “but a few weeks ago I was looking forward to taking Pola to the dog show in Richmond.  First, I was hoping I would get the weekend off so we could go. Next, I was hoping lots of dogs would be present, making the event a major competition. Then, I hoped a certain handler would be there to show her. And, two days before we were to leave, Pola got pneumonia and I was hoping she would live.”

How intense we are about our daily incidentals, when, in truth, in just a few moments life can slip crazily out of kilter and leave us hanging by a mere thread. This is a sure way for priorities to be set straight, suddenly, and it’s obviously humbling.

This has been the pattern of my life. Everything goes fairly smooth for a period of time, then “oops,” some downtime for a medical emergency.  I have come to think of it as living on the ragged edge, a bit dangerous place to walk, but, oh, the view.

Birthdays become something more than celebrations, taking on nebulous auras, something like holiness. Little things, like shiny green beetles found on a hillside path, rain drops, and everyday moments don’t simply plod, plop and prod. Instead, they dance in the awareness of their “thereness.”

Strange how going without food for a few days promptly accentuates its importance. And, full appreciation for the hidden workings of the magnificent machine we call “car” springs forth when it no longer works to carry us about. These are times when the four-lettered word “body” gets vigorous attention.

King David of ancient Israel must have had a similar experience as we are all familiar with his eloquent prayer:

“You have searched me, Lord, and You know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; You perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; You are familiar with all my ways . . . For You created my inmost being;

You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from You when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. How precious to me are Your thoughts, God! How vast is the sum of them!” (Psalms. 139:13-17).

Funny little creatures we are, doing much as we please to our bodies, often failing to give them what they need. But let them break down or simply fail us in the smallest way, and we become indignantly alarmed, frustrated, angry, maybe even sullen.  A sign of pride?

Imagine being made of the dust of the earth, yet described as being “a little lower than the angels . . . crowned with glory and honor” (Psalm 8:5). And what a crown, that human brain. Our plans, ideas and imaginings can give us quite a high. Yet how humbling is the truth that in the twinkling of an eye we can be called forth into eternal reality for a little chat with God – no cars, clothes or cash to lean on. Naked, this little hunk of dust.

Humbling as this line of thought might be, let us balance it by remembering that what we do here on earth can and does hold importance. We are significant beings, called and chosen. The short time we have here brings forth either blessings or cursings.

To quote Robert Penn Warren, author of “All the King’s Men, “It all depends on what we do with the dirt.”