Nothing revolutionary, just a thought about figs.

The message at church yesterday was from Mark 11, when Jesus cursed the fig tree (not because of the lack of figs, but because of the pretense of the leaves). So because we are very hands on and like the experiential element, during our worship and response time of communion, we had the opportunity to eat a dried fig. 

My time of communion was exactly what I needed it to be. I took the time to pray over the coming week - one that I was feeling overly anxious about, not because of anything bad, but just all the details. I took the bread and the juice, and I thought about how Jesus poured himself out for me; how he humbled himself, becoming less than a servant. Broken. Selfless. Then I thought about my role as mother and wife, and the life I have been called to. I read somewhere once that motherhood is the perfect picture of that sacrificial love because every day you are dying to yourself in service of your children's needs. So during my communion with the Lord I prayed, submitting myself to that holy calling. Feeling more prepared for the sacrifice, I got my fig. 

I don't know what I expected. I have very little experience with the fig outside of the Newton (which, as it turns out, also has very little to do with the real fruit!). Regardless, I was shocked. It was sweet. Pleasant. Delicious! Suddenly, I understood. This is it! Jesus died for my sins so that I could live in him and bear the fruit of a godly life. I serve my children and my husband and family so they will draw closer to Christ and bear fruit as well. After the pain and toil and brokenness and pouring out of ourselves, we get fruit. Sweet, yummy fruit.