It was when Jesus’ toothpick arm snapped while I was putting him on the cross this [Good Friday] morning that I felt it in my heart: the twinge of new understanding, a fresh glimpse of His pain for me.
It was when my five-year-old remembered at lunchtime, he who can’t even remember what he had for breakfast - it was when he remembered that he whined on the way to the shop, and that he should put a thorn in Jesus’ crown because of that small sin. That he remembered his sin. That he called it sin. That he quietly took a thorn and stuck it into the grapevine wreath, and understood.
Jesus was broken for our sin. For his sin. My sin. Yours.
Broken, body broken, blood spilled out… and it was that my five-year-old was understanding this that broke me this year.
Somehow, I’m living it all over again through them. The moments when understanding first broke through into my consciousness, when I first began to understand the depth of Jesus’ brokenness for me. The layers of His love go deep, and as you live you unwrap depth after depth of brokenness, and you love Him deeper and deeper the older you get.
That little toothpick arm that snapped? Jesus’ whole body writhed in agony on that tree, for me. For William. And it was our sins that held him there - love for us, and love for His Father. I’m glad my heart is broken, and I’m even more glad for William’s deepening understanding of brokenness… a simple crown of thorns, a new tradition, a sweet-sad moment with my son.
Blessing upon blessing welling up from His brokenness, healing ours.