It’s replete with crying babies, their equivalents, constant challenges, irritations, aging parents and grandparents, tiny joys, and sheer ordinariness. It’s the proving ground where responsibility shifts from classroom virtue to an expected lifestyle, the battlefield where you learn courage is goodness acting without feeling, and courage is something you’d better take everywhere.
It’s long hours sometimes, it is Sabbath ½ of the time we plan it, and it is balancing the endless web of relationships with wisdom and love and prayer.
And, for me, it is baptism into acting as if the good Lord cares about it all, the ultimate everyman at least in the limited sense of actually caring to grant me the patience at 4:13 a.m. when I’d like to chuck my cat out the window. We each have our tiny plot, methinks, so each of us gets to entrust our difficult lives to be done alongside Jesus, who alone secures the meaning of our lives, because his hard life ended with a real resurrection and ours can, too.
When I was in high school, Jesus was marble cake because he could be. He was lovely and sweet on my lips. And because my responsibilities were either illusions or vastly overstated, that’s all Jesus needed to be.
But only as I become an adult—as I become a man, even—do I understand how Jesus could ever be my bread.
photo credit: kasey took a picture of me & tim while we nodded off at 7:30 pm. I had pneumonia, though, so tim is the real adult