My fingers push the red dough into the strawberry form and I push it tight and pop out one imperfect Play-Doh strawberry.
He’s pushing brown dough into the sandwich bread form, talking the whole time about how he’s making this Play-Doh food. I’m only half-listening.
It’s Passion Week, the Monday before Easter Sunday, and I’m not sure I even know what that means in my life – or what it should?
How do you reflect on the violent death of the perfect Son of God, who came and allowed Himself to be brutally killed, to bear my sin and my shame in His faultless body?
It’s Monday, with red and brown Play-Doh, and homemade granola bars, and lots of laundry, and an 8-month-old boy crawling around the house in his cloth diaper pulling dining room chairs onto his head.
And it’s Monday, the first day of Passion week, and everything in my life feels ordinarily unholy.
At first glance.
When the baby wakes up from his morning nap, I put jackets on the boys and I buckle them into the bike carriage and off we go.
I’m pedaling and pulling an estimated seventy-five extra pounds and I’m cycling really slow.
But the little men are happy and I have time to think about my life making Play-Doh strawberries and folding stacks of laundry and believing in a Jesus who died but rose again.
I celebrate His birth because His birth was the sacred advent, but I stake my whole life on His glorious Resurrection because His resurrection is the pinnacle of all hope.
Everything in my life feels ordinarily unholy, but because my Savior walked out of the tomb, defying death, I believe in resurrection.
Not just the Resurrection, but the resurrection of my one, small, common life –
to be something holy, amazing, and profound.
Because small lives lived ordinary, have extraordinary purpose in the Kingdom of God.
Because the God of the Kingdom is a God who uses Play-Doh strawberries and baskets of laundry and little 8-month old babies in cloth diapers to preach the reality of the Gospel.