slicing the moon.

I’m slicing the moon today.

Or at least that is what it looks like as I’m cutting my pear in halves, now quarters, now eighths: whole moon waning, fruit flesh pale white like the moon itself.

I laugh as I look down–pear in one hand, knife in other–and remember all of the times I used to ask my dad to cut up various fruits for me as a child, from apples to pears to plums. Even as I got older, I was always so afraid of holding a knife, of learning how to cut and slice apples. And now, here I am, and Dad is not here in my home, and I’m the one who is now cutting the pear as if it was the simplest activity.

When did I cross over from childhood to adulthood?
(And am I still in that crossing, that wandering in the wildness for how many years? I feel as if yes, that is true.)

And yet, when I am at my parents house, my dad is still asking me if he can slice me up an apple, a pear, advertising for me its juiciness, its goodness. I love his offers, and see that out of his goodness he longs to help me so much. My father has truly a servant’s heart, eager and longing to help anyone, not just his daughters. I am so grateful that his servant heart is a beautiful and yet mere reflection of My Father’s Servant Heart, translating for me the physical from the spiritual.

I’m slicing the moon today.

This is the last pear of the 3 I bought earlier this week, and it is the most brusied looking. It has survived its transporting from the grocery to my home, from my home to retreat weekend and back. I must admit, I forgot this poor fruit in the midst of everything in my bag. Green skin traced with scars, bruises. And yet, as I slice it, the beauty of the crisp pale white-moon fruit is revealed under its epidermis. And more of My Father’s words are being revealed to me:

2 corinthians 4

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 10 We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.

Based on outward appearances, this fruit looks weak, worn. Its scars etching across its body, browning. Outwardly, Paul and his fellow friends did too look weak, worn. And yet, it wasn’t until the scars and bruises appeared, until suffering came, that the fruit of Jesus’ life was revealed in them. The jars of dark clay broken like piggy banks to in order to discover the most valuable treasure of them all.

The most valuable treasure of them all.

I look at the flesh-fruit and its skin and how it mirrors my own: scars on my hips, on my thigh, near my collar. Amazing how all of God’s living creations reflect and reveal deeper truths into His Word, affirming its sincerity, its validity. My experiences—be it the fruit in my hand now or the scar I’m tracing now—they are the testimony.

Testimony of graces, graces.

Slicing soft and bruised ripe fruit to enjoy its sweetness.
Enduring suffering to enjoy the peace and relationship He gives.

Oh yes, testimony of graces, graces.

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