Sometime over the past year or so, I’ve spoken about a bird ending up in The Chapel and me desperately trying to capture said bird and release it back into the “wild.”
Also, over the past year or so, I’ve talked about my pizza oven and making a foolish error where I singed some of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I’m not sure what my deep theological point was in either of those stories… but I’m sure they were meaningful. Likely life-changing.
You won’t believe it…
Last week I was using my pizza oven to roast some carrots. I was flambéing them to get a nice finishing char with a delightful caramelized sauce. And lo and behold, flames shot out of the oven—and I singed my eyebrows and eyelashes again.
I didn’t want to let Sarah know… because I figured she would determine I’m not “responsible enough to play with fire…” So I did the mature thing and didn’t tell her.
Turns out, the fire also singed the hair on my head. I know. My luscious locks.
She immediately noticed.
Then, just this past week—a bird wandered into The Chapel, and I had to catch and release it. Two days in a row.
I don’t know if this bird is trying to draw closer to God, or wants to see the beauty of the space, or if he’s just foolish—but he keeps wandering in, getting caught, and being carried back out.
I’ve now done this three times. Twice this week alone.
And every time—I still get this wild rush trying to catch the bird.
My heart races. I get unusually hot and sweaty. The adrenaline pumps.
I feel like Steve Irwin or Dog the Bounty Hunter…
But instead of crocodiles or criminals on the run… it’s a tiny bird.
Last night at dinner, we had a very serious theological conversation.
Should any food ever touch the palm of your hand?
Weird question, I know—but watch a little kid eat, and you’ll see every food group being palmed like it’s a basketball. Personally, I find that gross…but I’m also not a child, and I’m a recovering germaphobe, so maybe that’s just me.
Adults, on the other hand, tend to keep their food at the fingertips—unless it’s popcorn, nuts, or candy. Those get a pass. Otherwise, palm-to-food contact? No thank you.
Sarah and I made our case. It was clear, logical, and morally superior (obviously). No palm-to-food contact—except for small snacks. Case closed. I even triumphantly challenged the table:
“Name one food that should touch the palm of your hand.”
Right after we sort out the candy, take down the cobwebs and spooky decorations, and toss the rotting pumpkin from our front porch, Sarah is ready to decorate for Christmas and start drinking Peppermint Mochas.
I, on the other hand, am a traditionalist. I need to wait another four weeks or so, watch Santa glide past Macy’s on a Thursday morning, and eat an unhealthy amount of carbs before I’m ready to prepare my heart and mind for Christmas.
We can’t wait to celebrate and remember Jesus stepping into creation. We jump at the opportunity to look toward the little town of Bethlehem. We love the traditions of counting down the days and indulging in the treats of the season.
This is Holy Week. A week that is set apart, a week that is specifically set aside to reflect upon what happened 2000 years ago in Jerusalem. A week with high highs and low lows.
During a week that is so big, that is so full, that we see so much of what God has done and is doing, it is also a week where we have so many people in town.
It is a bit of a feast, a bit of chaos, a bit of everything.
