The day blooms red. The tulips, bursting red on Sunday, remind me of blood that dripped that day….

And of the drippings of my own heart. Piercings by this world. By enemies. The deepest ones, by friends. Piercings he also knew, as a man.

I need a salve, and I come to Jesus’ feet, and see myself, there at the cross, watching… tears dripping… like his drops of blood.

And a word comes, from an unexpected place… “Love you”… from someone not so well known, but I know she means it, and I feel like my cup runs over.

As I stand in the kitchen, I mix dough, the sticky mass spinning in the bowl, like my world does sometimes. I stir the soup, the carrots and potatoes become soft, and dinner becomes like my heart.

The kneading, shaping, the poking– my heart is moved, torn, transformed– by love. What else can do it? He showed it– it’s by love. Not the opposite.

I need only answer to one. 

I need only Him to know.

When the world sees one thing, he sees the other. When the world turns its face, he turns to me. He doesn’t choose what man venerates. He walked a path of humility… self-righteousness is not in him, though he deserved more than what the world offered. And me, unfit to untie the sandals on his feet, I don’t offer enough of me.

Beauty is in the humble heart, the softness… Love is in the face that turns toward its speaker… Kindness is spoken in small ways, gestures… and it is noticed. Eyes that overflow with love might spill tears. Haven’t we had enough of angry flashes of white hot anger, seething words, spiteful eyes? {We do, though, don’t we… We’ve been the recipient, haven’t we….}

I bake the bread, slice, wrap and freeze half of it for another day. I serve the soup, steaming, and realize it doesn’t have enough salt. So much my hands touch turn out imperfect, less than. I am disappointed. But my heart is bigger than this soup.

Along the way, there are those who scorn, and those who love… those whose bread is like a thorn, and those who offer morsels and crumbs of life, nutrient-rich in grace and spirit-fruit.

We find both types. We eat both types. We are both types… no?

Amidst this journey, a red line of extreme grace is behind and ahead. It is there that I stand, in a singular spot, and see the scarlet thread.

It’s the point where the cross and my life intersect.

No other spot on earth is like it… where a soul is fully known and completely loved… and utterly forgiven.

It’s where I’m at home.

I take this bread, and I eat. Nothing else tastes quite as good.


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