Three Spoons in the Honey of His Love

Last week a friend stopped by who has a lot of bee hives and sells honey. We provide his wife, who cannot handle store bought cow milk, with our good goat milk. In turn they share honey with us, including some thicker, stickier, lighter-colored honey than usual. This honey had been made during a wet season, with more moisture in it, and it ends up with more probiotics in it than normal our friend says.

 

When our friend asked if we had finished the jar of honey yet, I said no, waving over at the counter where the jar sat. He stepped over to  look inside the jar. 

"Three spoons in it!" he exclaimed. 

What? Sure enough. I had to take a picture! Somebody or somebodies must have loved their honey! 

I love honey, but I am not allowed to eat it anymore because cancer cells gobble up sugar and grow.

"When I get to heaven," I said a day or two ago when my family was slathering honey or maple syrup on their buckwheat pancakes,  

"I'm going to eat all the maple syrup I want!'

So I must find another kind of honey and syrup to indulge in, like music.

When I cannot eat honey, I can still sing. 

I can attend the community Easter cantata, as I did last evening. I hated to go by myself, but Jonathan couldn't go, and I wanted to make contacts in the community and hear some good music, so I went. 

And I can sit there with tears running down my cheeks as they narrate the gospel story and sing this beautiful, reverent song about the cross--

with a rugged cross standing next to the choral group on the platform of the high school auditorium.

My sins put him there, but He died for me

so that I could be forgiven.

He shed His blood--like great sweet drops of honey, dripping on the sand.

Drops so full of love that I can take in my spoon

and taste and see that the Lord is good. 

And I can be forever satisfied with the honey of His love!