Awakened before my family, I lean on the kitchen counter, sip tea and wipe slumber on my pajama sleeves. Push the butcher knife through peeled potatoes, slice skinny carrots into barbarian wheels, and chop onions until fumes keep my eyes sealed shut. It’s after I pull the leg of lamb from the brown paper wrapper and lay it on the cutting board that tears begin to form. And I lay the knife down.
I cook every day, but today as I prepare Sabbath dinner in my crockpot, I see an innocent lamb raised somewhere by an unknown farmer, giving its life for my stew. I thank God for the sacrifice. And the dominoes of what I know about Jesus stacked neatly on the floor of my faith; they collide into a sighing heap.
He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth. Isaiah 53:7 ESV
In a world of chatter and endless news updates I’m thinking about His silence. How Jesus didn’t defend himself, have a platform or place to lay His head at night. Leaning on the shoulder of the well-meaning should, I’m weary; enslaved by the ten points of other’s, simulating their success.
I want to hide in the corner, curl up in His lap. And learn from what He tells me not to say.
I’m honored to be the featured write for Imperfect Prose at Emily Wierenga’s place. Won’t you click over and finish the story there? I’d love to meet you in the comments.