Just a Little Cake

By Donna Poole

As we walk each other Home, not all our meanderings will be on sunny paths. Will you journey with me awhile in the darkness, my friend?

Huddled in the darkest corner of my empty house I sit on the floor, rocking back and forth, head on my knees, arms wrapped around my legs.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s dark; it’s the midnight of my soul. Is this coldness what it feels like to die? If it is, why can’t I just get it over with? I’m too exhausted to cry, too numb to call for help, too bone-weary to look for my bed. Is it even here any more?

I feel someone shake my shoulder. “Make me a cake.”

“Make you a what? I have nothing in my house. Look at me. I have given the last ounce of my love, sung the last note of my song, written the last word from my heart.”

He studies me, and He smiles. “Make me a cake. Just a little one. Make it from your weariness, your bitterness, your loneliness, your despair.”

My bones chill. Who is this monster alone with me in the dark asking me for an offering of my deepest pain? I shrink in fear.

“Are you the devil?”

“Look again.” The voice is mellow and strong.

A light, soft at first, glows and fills the room. I bend and hold His feet. “My Lord and my God!”

He laughs, a beautiful sound. “And now, my cake!”

He lifts me. Surprised I can even stand, I begin mixing all I have, exhaustion, heartbreak, loneliness, fear, pain, and despair. I hold it out to Him.

“Too dry! I have nothing to dampen the batter.”

“Try your tears.”

I shake my head wearily. “I ran out of those years ago.” He puts one hand on each of my cheeks, bows low with grace, and kisses my forehead. Suddenly, I’m sobbing healing tears, bursting from a place in my heart I thought had died with my long-lost saints.

I stir the batter and pour it into the pan. Still, I’m sad. “I have no fire to bake this little cake for You.”

“Thanksgiving always works.”

“Thank You! Thank You, Lord that You can use the emptiness, the grief, the suffering that is me.”

A fire begins within. It’s no longer cold and dark. I offer it up, all I thought was nothing but ugliness and pain. I give it with thanksgiving, and He wraps His arms around me and gives me words to sing again.

Dedicated to Lois Pettit with love, and with gratitude to Elisabeth Elliot and Amy Carmichael, because everyone we love and everything we read becomes part of us and makes us who we are.