It never fails – the moment the whir of the mixer begins, his four year old feet come running to our kitchen table and he wrestles his chair over the rug near the sink and presses it up close to the counter.
He climbs up, with much pomp and flair and leans in close against my arm. Which, apparently is never close enough because before I know it, he is on top of the counter with his nose inches from the bowl.
I crack-a the eggs, Mama? Please? I won’t make a mess!
And his hopefulness is tempered by the reality that nearly half of every egg ends up on the side of the bowl or on the far depths of the floor – egg cracking is a skill he is still learning.
Without any prompting this past week, as he bowed his head with his daddy to pray for the day – with eyes pressed tightly closed his prayer included a form of this request,
And Jesus? Help me to crack-a the eggs good!
I sometimes wonder if part of the fascination of watching me in the kitchen isn’t to see how a jumbled pile of the dry and the wet coming together all sticky and clumpy transforms into something that deeply satisfies the senses.
I could be over-complicating the thoughts in his mind, true. But that hand that reaches out to touch the stilled beater and swipe a gooey bit of dough reveals a lot more than it hides.
His mama makes messes.
And not just the culinary kind.
I make messes that are soul deep and heart wrenching and the outcomes are rarely ever good.
I think of those recipes I follow that call for the tablespoon of baking powder and the teaspoon of salt and I realize too late that I’ve mixed up one with the other and they both have become irretrievable – the dough is ruined and the only thing it’s good for is the trashcan under the sink.
Is there a trashcan large enough for life’s big screw-ups?
I didn’t think so.
But there are potatoes.
Not much use in baking, they are the saving grace in an over-salted pot of soup simmering on the stove. Too much salt? Throw in a potato and it soaks in the excess and saves what should be thrown away.
I mess up daily in big and small ways but there is One Who looked through all the moments of time and decided that for His purposes and plans to be fulfilled, right here in this place and time, He needed to create me.
Not, create a mess.
But, create me.
Before the creation of the world He looked ahead to all of the moments I would get right and all those moments where I would stumble around in my sin and before I even existed He hung on that tree, taking in every.single.one. of those sins to present me holy and pleasing before a Holy and Loving God.
The cross held my Saving Grace.
He created me – in fearful and wonderful ways, whether my soul knows that full well or not. The Creator created me and regardless of the cracked and broken places of a heart being healed and made new and He has made me His Own.
There is no sweeter truth – to know that in spite of my failings, He loves me. His Life given is greater than my sin and His Life raised transforms with Grace the ugly that sin creates.
He is the One Who created Me and because of His Grace and my simple faith, I am His.
And You speak and this heart responds because like any clueless sheep, I know my Shepherd’s Voice.
So I still and I listen for Your Words – I rest in the knowing You.That in the knowing perhaps my soul will settle, will stop flailing in the restless and instead find rest in Your Grace.