He Lives!
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
John and I sat down at the table last week to discuss our Easter menu. We'd already had an early Easter celebration with his side of the family at his mother's house last week because she left this week to be with her daughter in St. Louis. Last Sunday we feasted on ham, fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and more desserts than I could "shake a stick at".
Since we celebrated our early Easter with foods John had grown up with in the south, I knew I had to have at least one dish on Easter day that would remind me of my home.
As we discussed the menu, we decided to prepare a turkey dinner. We aren't going overboard with the side dishes since there are only four of us here at the house, but we will have scalloped potatoes, peas, corn, a macaroni salad, and crescent rolls.
The macaroni salad is a nod to my parents in Cincinnati. Mom and dad would make it, and then it would often be a part of picnic meals at Winton Woods near our house. It's easy to prepare, and every time I do, I think of my parents. When I taste it, I think of home and the summer days of my youth when I ran barefoot through the hills of the park on a family picnic laughing, playing, and enjoying time with my brother, sister and parents.
When I mix the ingredients together, I often worry about the proportions, or if I am doing it right. However, when I finish, the final product always tastes like home.
I just finished tomorrow's macaroni salad, and it's resting in the refrigerator. As it chills overnight and the flavors blend together, it will be just perfect on the table when we're ready to place it next to the turkey.
Tastes, flavors, smells, sounds are etched in my brain. They transport me to other places in an instant. A train whistle takes me to Farmersburg, Indiana. A certain perfume makes me think of my grandmother. Chicklets gum puts me in church next to mom when I was squirmy during the sermon and she tried to keep me quiet. Same with figs. The first fig I tasted was at Sunday School maybe in the 3-4 year old class when the teacher brought them in to let us taste them.
My senses can take me places I haven't been to in years.
Therefore, how ironic that it is the leap of faith --that which I can not use my five senses for--that will lead me to heaven.
I am so used to defining the world around me in terms of sensory perceptions. However, faith requires me to trust God and let go of sensory perceptions.
How do I know God exists? How do I know Christ rose from the grave? How do I know there is life after death?
My physical senses can not answer these questions. Only my faith can.
As my faith in God grows, it becomes stronger and more beautiful. It leads me to a Home that should seem as familiar as the one where I was a little girl running in the woods on a picnic day with a family who loved her.
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Thank you, Lord, for helping my faith grow stronger in you.
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