Bestowing the Blue Bell

on sacrifice as opportunity

They run up the stairs in a fury. Little boys can do that when ice cream is on the line. It's five days into our family beach trip, and cousins are comfortable with each other by now. Comfortable enough to insist on claiming the last Blue Bell chocolate ice cream cup. I'm waiting on the deck where they race to be first, declare who's first, record who's first, and didn't even the disciples do the same thing?

I scream, you scream, and these boys are screaming for ice cream. I want chocolate, no I want chocolate! But that's not fair! Why does he get the last one and I don't? I want it! The cry of their hearts are coming out of their mouths without sophistication or composure because who could tame the tongue when chocolate ice cream is on the line?

I bend down low. I pull them close. I look them in the eyes. Those desperate, fear-stricken, wanting eyes. I repeat what I'm hearing: You want chocolate. Yes. And you want chocolate. Yes. So you both want chocolate? YES. I nauseate them with my recap, but they choose to listen anyway because I am the one to bestow the Blue Bell.

We promise to practice taming the tongue by being peaceable and open to reason as James would have us, and we begin the negotiation process. I lay out the options. You could have vanilla, and he could have chocolate. No. Or you could have vanilla, and he could have chocolate. No, I want chocolate. The look of determination deepens in their eyes. Okay, moving on. How about this, you could each have half chocolate and half vanilla? No! They say in unison. I do not want half chocolate, half vanilla! And guess what else they said? I want chocolate, a whole chocolate.

I bore them with a list of their own wants again, their refusal to give them up, and propose to them a question which removes their focus from chocolate and from me and forces them to look at each other—this question I've been packing and carrying with me to many family beach trips: "Which of you would like to serve the other?" Shock and curiosity widen their eyes as they turn toward one another. I continue with wonder, "Because we have an amazing opportunity here, and that is to know Jesus more. He came as a servant. He gave up everything so that he could come to earth and serve his people. One of you can know him more by serving the other!"

If these were empty words, they would know it. They would know if my opportunity was merely manipulation for one of them to give it up so I don't have to choose who gets the chocolate or to toss it in the trash. But they know me and the conviction with which I speak. By now they've heard me enter over half a dozen cousin and sibling squabbles and carefully ask, "Do you think you're in the flesh or the Spirit?" "Does that sound like harmony with one another?" They've said yes when to my offer to pray with them to turn from their flesh, to depend on the God of endurance and encouragement, to do the thing that is so hard to do when our wants take hold of us so that we can't see each other, so that we can't see the opportunity that is right in front of us.

One looks down, lowers his voice, and shares softly, "I still want chocolate." The other says the same, the hostility gone, and I wait patiently, silently. The first boy sounds ashamed when he adds that his desire is still for a whole chocolate. The other boy is sad to say he also wants a whole chocolate. I hang the question out there one more time, almost a whisper, "Who will serve the other?"

"I'll have a whole vanilla."

He might as well have been a burning bush or a parted sea or a fish vomiting up a human. I witnessed a miracle, the power of God in the most resistant thing of all—the human heart. But oh! When we see Christ. When we lift our eyes from our own wants to the Word of God made flesh for us, we see glory. How strong his love to flood a heart consumed by desires to serve self rather than neighbor. How ready he is to work through humility. I witnessed a miracle, and I worshiped.

"What?! What did you just say? You'll have a whole vanilla? You'll serve him? Buddy, I believe God is at work in your heart, and I'm so amazed." I wrap him up with tears in my eyes and assure him that he'll know Jesus more through this. We walk a somber road to the freezer to retrieve one chocolate and one vanilla. The arrangement is settled, and the acceptance is sacrifice. Upon our entry to the kitchen, I'm told, "Hey La, you know there are two chocolates, right?"

You might have mistaken this moment for a lame man leaping or a sick man dancing or an underdog coming back to win the championship with the emotions that overtook our bodies. Shook with shock, erupting with elation, giggling with gladness. We race to the freezer to find there are indeed two chocolates. It's the breaking of the fish and loaves! It's the water from the rock! It's the gospel for a little boy who was willing to surrender and sacrifice to know Jesus more and found him to be better than he could have asked or imagined by giving him not only the chocolate, but a heart so full he can't help but conclude: "God has blessed us."

Dark brown lines form across upturned lips, and I will the spoons not to drip on white shirts. They keep looking at each other, keep smiling at each other, keep laughing and recapping their own story with their own words, keep delighting in tasting and seeing the goodness of God.

The next morning, that little boy moves my Bible just slightly to nestle himself on my lap. He asks if I like to be alone in the mornings (didn't I tell you he knew me?). I say yes, I like to be alone with God. He nods, forms his next question, and poses, "But why is God invisible?"

"I don't know buddy, but you know what he teaches us? When we do what he does because we love him, others can see God in us. When you sacrificed and served your cousin last night, he could see God in you. You said yes to God's work in your heart to know Jesus more, but you know what?" What? "All of us got to know Jesus more because of it."

Boy cousins at their finest.