By Eli Wick · Contributing Writer
I felt a sudden urge to leave my room at 1:20 a.m. after watching a particularly secular entertainment program.
I took a walk outside in the chilling weather with the goal of getting a pomegranate-infused drink from the cafeteria. The cold truly does clear minds, sharpening the dullest priority.
I had been struggling in my faith for a good while until the Lord had revealed himself and his will to me, through the people around me and his magnificent creation.
So concerned was I in walking on an adult path that I had forgotten the essence of childhood. But that night, I had realized it, or, at least, I felt as though God revealed it to me. A sudden weight was swept away by the winds that kicked up fresh, glittering powder.
As I trekked through the thick, lazy snow, it almost felt like I was walking beside God. I asked him such childish questions as I would have 12 years ago, but somehow those questions felt more powerful than the existential ones that plagued me so recently and which entomb others.
I was imagining the taste of pomegranate, and felt the gusts swirl around me — a kind of surface cold that reminds you of the heat inside.
To the open, cloudy midnight, I remember talking to myself about the time Jesus had spent on this earth, the handful of years that he had to experience the vast flavors, emotions and chills we get to enjoy.
In the later chapters of the gospel, we experience Jesus’ new, risen body almost alongside him as he appears to two disciples on the road to Emmaus. The two disciples appear quite sullen, but Jesus gives them an immediate reprieve — a personal autobiography and then the chance to break bread with him, before vanishing in front of their eyes. Later, Jesus appeared to the disciples, gathered at the news that their rabbi had been seen.
But we live in a moment when Jesus is not seen, so I wondered aloud whether Jesus had a chance to fully experience the creation he carefully developed. He has created so much for us that it feels unfair if he did not eat pomegranate or see the beauty of snow piling up.
I continued along the padded concrete, reflecting on this childish question. When I reached my destination, I purchased my drink as desired and unscrewed the cap to give it a taste. It tasted dusty, undesirable, like a cup after a long time open to an indoor air.
I went along my way outside and remembered yet another encounter one had with the Lord, a reflection of his goodness to creation: Abel’s offering, his first fruits. With my childish question from before, this passage in my mind burned for a moment, and
I had my second strange urge of the night. I poured out a portion of my pomegranate juice onto the snow. It felt right.
With this small satisfaction, I continued along the path I took to reach the market and saw an icy trail some team of poor souls tramped down. I ran along the path, feeling like I was seven years old again, and contemplated a long-time dream of mine.
I confess, I have always wanted to be a father. I remember my own parents succeeding so well in caring and pruning my brother and I, but, unlike my father’s misfortune of two unruly boys, I have always wanted daughters.
I prayed to God in that moment, running through foot-and-a-half of snow, that he would never give me a child while I have the childishness I felt at that moment — only for the havoc we would wreak on the world together, one child of God in league with another (just with a touch more mischievous tendency).
That night had been an escape from darkness into a clarifying dose of creation. Only in that moment, when I allowed silence to overtake me, did silence invite its friends, joy and wonder, to kindly punch me in the face.
I drink my pomegranate beverage here, now, with thoughts of God’s mercy and unrestrained kindness, with prayers that he continues to amaze me and keep me in the company of wonder and joy. My drink now tastes sweeter than it ever has.
