He knows how we are formed. He remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103: 14)

In the moment of my disobedience, he looks down and the clay crumbles in his hands.  The clay is dry and useless, already fired.  It can't be remodeled like moist clay.  

But then I recall:

God formed a man out of the dust of the ground... Genesis 2:7.

I remember how he calmly wrote in the dust before the adulterous woman and her accusers.

.... then, neither to do I condemn you.  Jesus said.  Go now and leave your life of sin.  John 8:11

He looks down, but not in despair.  Having borne the cross, released from death for all time, he lowers himself to the ground to gather the fallen dust into his hands and considers the masterpiece within the ashes:  In slow motion, he drops to his knees and begins renewing the brittle, fired dust, his preferred medium.

He is the great artist (Song of Solomon 7:1) 
            the architect (Hebrews 11:10) 
               the author (Hebrew 12:2) 
          the carpenter (Mark 6:3).

He smiles broadly with calloused hands and dusty clothes.  His sandals don't look like a cartoon anymore: softened leather, white with dust. The white of his garments and the sun-lit debris are a cloud.  He revels in this place.  The genius at work. The Creator.