Where is my milk and honey?
As we were preparing for Easter, we shared the story – the Romans, the desire for earthly kingdom, the heavenly one instead, the thorns, the whip, and the cross – and my boys began to act it out. They fought over who got to be Jesus, who got to be Peter, cutting off ears. One was a soldier who wore a Tranformer breast plate. He pretended to nail hands and feet to the wall.
So they knew the story, in their own Hollywood way. But one night I read it to them.
And quietly at first, Isaac began sobbing. I continued to read through the resurrection, thinking it would comfort him. But Isaac continued to cry deeply, even after we prayed, tucked into bed, and turned off the lights.
He tasted the bitter, kept saying, “I wish He didn’t have to do that. Why did He have to do that?” He said he didn’t want to hear that story again for three more years, hard to swallow.
It’s tough to explain sin or Real Love or a Father letting His Son go. I put my hands on Isaac, and I prayed for Holy Spirit to reveal Himself. I prayed for the death of my own son.
Early the next morning, I met my MamaCarmen’s girlfriends for accountability, and this was the day I had planned to break my Lent and drink coffee for the first time. We finally sat with our Lattes, already deep in conversation. I was listening and not thinking when I brought that cup to my face, and it hit me like a whoosh, like a tiny dramatic flash into the unseen.
It was immeasurably the best coffee I’d ever tasted, homemade cinnamon syrup, Guatemalan beans roasted within a few days of hitting my mouth. Giving up coffee wasn’t extremely sacrificial, but that act of having said NO to myself, of saying prayers instead, and of waiting never got easier, and it did bring an intimacy between me and Jesus that I didn’t expect.
After letting Isaac go to bed in the uncomfort of the cross, a 6 year old mulling over Great invisible things, I was steeped in the graciousness of Christ’s return, in the only One that could breach such a chasm as my sin has made between me and God.
I tasted the sweetness, interrupting my friends with a few welling tears. We laughed. Brooke took a picture.
On Good Friday coffee made me cry. But really it was the thought of seeing Christ return again, how the whole earth waits for such satisfaction
down to the bones of the children, down to the crust, down to the chert in my Mama’s driveway.
Consider what it means to have Christ-Esteem when we give up our sweetest things. What is it we’re really craving? Where is your milk and honey?