James runs past the front door of our church to find his coat. He sort of skids when he looks up and sees Jesus standing outside the tomb.
James slows, then stops, and pivots long enough to find the holes in the feet, and the ones at the wrists. He soaks up the image in the painting, quietly, without the help of adults. And then he’s off running again.
With a delicious Irish meat pie sitting on the table, my 4-year-old son looked across the same table and saw a chubby red rubber ball, 13 months his junior. Carefully, with a small elastic string, he tethered his brother to a hard, mischievous paddle.
“Jaaa-ames,” he pulled, “Me going to drink your miii-ilk.”
“Jaaa-ames, me going to eat your craaa-kers.”
As the “playful” paddling continued, each smack was met with a shrill, vile cry of defiance. Meanwhile, my half-full plate of food steamed in front of me, while a half-empty temper steamed inside of me. The noises were a bloody distraction from my meat and potatoes — like watching a battle unfold on the evening news during supper. Only this was worse — because I had to get involved.
Ever feel like you’re pushing around an empty cart? Or one weighed down and overflowing?
Either way, I’ve been gripping my cart handles more than my Bible lately. Misplacing my priorities is a sin I’m not fond of admitting to others. To me, it feels like a litmus test for the heart. Either I’m synching with God’s heart or something else.
“As the appearance of the rainbow in the clouds on a rainy day, so was the appearance of the surrounding radiance. Such was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord. And when I saw it, I fell on my face and heard a voice speaking.
“Then He said to me, ‘Son of man, stand on your feet that I may speak with you!'”