I got some books from the library, mostly cookbooks and light reading because I’ve got no energy to slog through something profound. So far I’ve come across nothing worth reporting from the cookbooks.
Peel garlic in ten seconds or less. (Disclaimer: brief video demonstration does contain a minor crass word that in fact rhymes with crass.)http://vimeo.com/29605182
One afternoon while on a jog, I slowed to a walk. To think. To pray. Blue skies and shimmering afternoon sunlight invited reflection.At my feet, where grass meets asphalt: petals. Soft pink petals, fresh fallen, collected by the wind along the edge of the road.”Like a wedding,” I thought. “Flower petals for the bride’s shy steps toward her groom.”It was a forced image, though. The symbolism was obvious. I thought of the bridegroom, Jesus, and His bride, the church. It was all right there, easy pickin’s.Just then, a gust of wind nudged branches and a flurry of petals danced around me, swirling, fluttering, brushing against my forehead and cheeks. Just as I grinned at the timing, another breath-breeze lifted thousands of petals, raining like confetti, each small petal dancing to the ground, landing right at my feet as I walked toward home, scattered by an unseen flower girl shaking out baskets full of pink.As I was processing that burst of joy, yet another gust lifted up thousands more petals that drifted down, resting on my hair and kissing my bare arms, until so many surrounded me and lay on my path, I accepted the gift with laughter, embarrassed by the attention, thanking an attentive Savior who ensured that I was given a carpet of soft pink on barren asphalt, assuring me of His love.
On Friday, our family saw a passion play put on by a local church. “Behold the Lamb” explained the thread of sacrifice throughout Scripture and led up to the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world. Through narration and music, the story unfolded. Jesus, played by a tall, white, brown-haired man, communicated with gestures and well-timed looks of compassion, anger, or suffering, depending on what the scene required.We sat in the very last row, taking it all in. For some scenes, characters would enter from the back of the auditorium and make use of the long aisle to head toward the stage. For the Good Friday scene, two Roman soldiers stood holding Jesus who was lashed to a beam of wood. They stayed in character while awaiting their cue: the Roman soldiers looked cold and fierce, ready to shove people out of the way. Jesus hung there, bare-chested, completely coated in streaks of red, a crown of thorns jammed against scraggly wet hair. He was waiting to be dragged the length of the auditorium, across the stage, and up stairs to a second level where they would hammer him onto the cross.Just before the music swelled to mark the long, humiliating journey to the cross, the man playing Jesus turned his head and looked down our row. In character, the man of sorrows locked eyes with one of my teen daughters. Just then, the soldiers yanked him along and we watched the suffering unfold.When the play was over, the pastor invited audience members to a reception down the hall. We could enjoy cookies and punch and interact with some of the characters. The kids wanted to go, so we headed down to meet and greet and eat. As we munched iced sugar cookies and sipped punch, my son recognized his AWANA leader dressed in first-century garb. He was in the choir. We met him and his family and thanked them for securing tickets for us.We watched as some of the children’s choir came out still in costume. We saw the man who played Peter and the boys who held live lambs throughout the performance. Finally, we decided we’d better head home. We worked our way through the crowd and just as we were about to leave the reception area, I saw the man who played Jesus. He was wearing his white “New Jerusalem” robe and a blue cloak that he used during the scenes when he was teaching.I had the passing thought that I might say something to him. Thank him. Tell him how moved I was by his portrayal. I thought I might mention how stirring it was when he brought the dead child back to life and when he rescued the woman caught in adultery. I thought I might thank him for hanging on the cross so long so that we could take in how terrible Jesus’ suffering must have been.But I couldn’t easily get to him, for he was surrounded by children.Children were rushing up to him, laughing and hugging him, and he bent over and nodded, answering their questions. He tousled a blond kid’s hair. He looked exhausted, but he grinned big and let them wrap their arms around him.My family was ahead of me. My husband was scanning the crowd, looking for me.I looked back at the Jesus, the children giddy with being right next to him.That’s how I wanted to remember the night.I turned to make eye contact with my husband. I waved. He spotted me, nodded and grinned, waiting for me as I moved through the crowd to my family.
Thank you for reading my words here. You are such faithful friends.
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All images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.