Broken

Nearly two weeks have passed since Jared declared our evening meal to be "the best we have had in ten months." His praise was not for the quality of the food itself; we were merely eating black beans over brown rice. Rather, his compliment was due to the fact that Russell and Elliot had consumed a dinner independent of us, scooping and eating with a spoon. Moreover, and perhaps more crucial, was that our darling boys had refrained from launching one ounce of food onto our hardwood floors. This was a matter for much rejoicing since after any meal our floors typically mirror a mine field, through which no amount of nimbleness or agility can prevent the smashing of old, crusty food onto our feet. Naively, we believed that we had reached a critical impasse in our ongoing war with the twins over food throwing and that the tide had turned in our favor. 

It is nearly inconceivable to me that two, tiny, sweet boys, bordering on militant in their desire for order, can habitually wreak such chaos when it comes to mealtimes. Leave a cabinet or closet door slightly ajar, a bag of wipes unclosed, and watch out, intensifying cries of, "Mama!" combined with finger pointing toward the egregious error will result.  But last week, the glory of our victory quickly withered, and our nemesis returned with a vengeance. Mere food slinging became the hurling of bowls, plates, glasses. At the conclusion of breakfast on Wednesday morning, three bowls covered in oatmeal and raisins lay broken on our kitchen counter. Orange juice splattered and stained the floor and trickled down the refrigerator. It was not even noon, and I was nearly at the end of myself.

From an Orthodox perspective, the Church is not merely a place where people who agree doctrinally (at least on the "important" matters) gather each week to drink a cup of coffee, eat a doughnut, sing a few songs, listen to a sermon, and fellowship. More than any of this, the Church is to be regarded as a hospital, a place of healing for fallen, sick men and women. She is a shelter and refuge where the Physician of our souls and bodies dispenses His medicine. And in the Orthodox Church, this medicine is not just offered to the mind and spirit, but is also offered to our worn and weary bodies through hallowed materials from His creation. In His love and mercy, mere water, bread, wine, and oil are transformed and sanctified–as are those who partake of them in faith.

Admitting defeat and acknowledging there was nothing I could do to alleviate my despondency, I opened the door to my refrigerator on that Wednesday morning and pulled out a small plastic container filled with the holy water we had recently brought home from Church. I unscrewed the lid to the container and in my brokenness sipped the water and prayed, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."