This past winter was difficult for me, as most winters are. The cold air sets in and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get warm. And what’s more, the cold sinks into my muscles so that they, who are already slow and uncooperative, just give up almost entirely. The start of each winter is always the worst, too, because although this has been the case for 35 years, I seem to think every winter is going to be different from the last, and when it’s not, I forget that the spring will come and be the same as every spring before as well. So, those first few weeks of winter are especially frustrating and defeating for me. As my strength wanes, my hope does too, and this past year was no different than before.
One night, in an effort to warm up, Katie and I were in the kitchen making soup on the stove. My job, when we are making soup, is to stir and instruct on spice proportions. I could do the latter just fine—a little more of this, a little more of that—but when it came to stirring, a simple enough task, my arms would have none of it. They felt like they were full of lead, or that they were teenagers who don’t want to get out of bed. I sat there, with my arms in my lap, sitting at the stove, while Katie leaned up against me and took over stirring.
We were listening to a gospel song that says, “There’s a leak in this old building, and my soul has got to move.” It was the tipping point for me, hearing the words that fit exactly what I felt. I broke down in tears, burying myself in Katie‘s shoulder. “My building’s leaky, Katie,” I sobbed. She held me and cried, too, feeling my pain. The soup could wait. She squeezed me tight.
Then she spoke. And while I heard my wife’s voice, I heard the voice of Jesus, too.
“I love your old building, Kevan. I love it, leaks and all.”
When Jesus taught His disciples to pray, He mentions our daily bread. I can’t help but wonder if He was referring to moments like this.