Watermelons and Wombs

A little more than one year ago, I watched as a baby boy was brought into the world. Amid the bustling of midwives, the dimly lit room, and the groans of mother-to-be, a new human entered what we call home. His delicate lungs, which were filled with fluid for nine months, must suddenly learn to exchange Oxygen for Carbon Dioxide. And within minutes his body naturally begins absorbing the cloudy lung fluid into his blood stream, allowing the first breath of cold air to pierce his insides and all this for no other reason than it was created to do so. The tiny heart which once produced slow, consistent and rythmic beats must now brurst into action as it desperately attempts to pump this oxygen throughout the body. And what follows is possibly one of the most memorable of moments: the first cry. Many say it is the natural consequence of the traumatic process of birth (as a child, someone once told me giving birth is like trying to squeeze a watermelon through something the size of a lemon and the mental image has never left me) but I prefer to think of this noisy entrance as a declaration of life, the announcement of being. And although I have never experienced this personally, I suppose it to be the most majestical and enthralling sound a mother may ever hear.

And now he is one-year-old and walking, and babbling, and watching, and questioning, and attempting to figure out this big place.

And isn't this all ridiculous? Isn't this taking it a little too far? With the whole beginning-as-two-gametes-then-coming-into-the-world-as-a-watermelon-built-of-billions-of-cells thing? And thank God that we don't acutally come from oversized birds, wrapped up like some frozen burrito ready for the microwave. And thank God that we don't simply "pop" into existance like some fairy-tale creature or that our cells don't all choose to become one large spleen or kidney but somehow know exactly what they need to be without communicating with the others. And thank GOD for button noses and play-doh toes and doll-like finger nails. Thank God. For He is intricately creative and infinitely surprising.

La Loba

This is Leo.

Mashed Taters

For lunch today I am having a black bean/tomato soup/potsticker concoction because for possibly the first time ever I am consciously acting to successfully finance my money (aka don't get to $0 in my bank account) and in order to avoid the next grocery run you must approach food creatively. But I am not writing today to bring awareness to my diet. No, today I am simply writing to openly declare before the cyber world the sweetness of my former week.

This past week was deep good. Not good like nothing-went-wrong but good like the-Spirit-moved-in-me. Last week at church someone mentioned that God's Spirit moves as it wills despite our advances or demands. And for what felt like the hundredth time I silently prayed "Do this in me! Choose me!". And for whatever reason, this time.... I was aware of it.

And so this week I ate mashed potatoes.

You know that feeling of hunger that comes not from your tummy but your very own Spirit? It is a hunger well known to each of us, rarely spoken about and terribly hard to satisfy. Sometimes we train ourselves numb but if we are afforded enough grace we become aware of it. And like some raucous juvenile sneaking into a church tower to ring the big bell so also does our soul resound in emptiness. It is not necessarily the desolate expanse within us that terrifies but more so the startling reality that we, you, I are depthful. We are capable of deep depth.

Deep Depth.

And sometimes I feel starving, ravenous for spirit food. And sometimes I feel oblivious to these needs. And sometimes, if I am careful to pay attention, I come across a delightfully romantic table set for two. I wish I could say I've tasted spirit steak but no I have not yet. But this week, it was like eating really buttery, hot, semi-chunky mashed potatoes. I was full from moment to moment and thankful because of it. And I ate when friends invited me into their brokenness and I ate when I watched little boys attempt to break dance and I ate when I realized I am horrible at honoring my father and mother. And I ate when the four year old leaned his head against my arm and I ate when I silently prayed the Jesus prayer:
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."

And one day far away from now, we will feast together. Complete with the most savory of meats, the most exotic wines, delicacies beyond our knowledge and a bottomless supply of those little fruit tarts that are so dang good. When He comes to take us home we will finally be satisfied.

Jesus, give us today our daily bread.

La Loba