Falling Asleep & Breaking Plates

What Jesus Does with Our Human-ness

Apr 19, 2025

My husband Justin came home from an eleven-day trip to Israel on Thursday night. I stood at the airport waiting with flowers, so excited to see him I felt sick. At least a hundred people came out of the gate before him, but then, yes, there he was—the person I love most in the world.

He brought gifts—an olive wood nativity, a gold ring, a shofar. He listened to the girls share every single detail of their ordinary teenage lives. With him sitting there across the booth at our favorite Mexican restaurant, everything was made right, exactly as it should be.

Friday morning I made breakfast, we cuddled on the porch and watched birds, and then the girls woke up, and we moved into the presentation part of homecoming. We sat on the couch, all four of us jockeying for blankets and space, and we watched the tv as Justin led us through pictures from the trip—pictures of places we’ve read about our whole lives but have never seen. There’s what might have been the cave of Adullam! There’s the valley of Jezreel! And then the valley of Elah (Where David killed Goliath? Yes!) En Gedi, putty colored everywhere but then goats and trees and springs! We watch and listen to stories and ask questions and receive history lessons. This lasts for two hours. We break for lunch.

After lunch we’re in Jerusalem and the emotion of it is almost too much. I know this city. But I don’t. I’m hungry for every detail. Another hour passes in happy contemplation. I pull my blanket up to my chin and settle in.

The Mount of Olives in Jerusalem—not exactly garden-y

He’s talking about Hezekiah’s tunnel when I first feel it—that sweet pull of sleep. Like gravity. Like a current. It tastes delicious. This has been a perfect day. What could be more perfect than ending with a nap?

But we’re not done. He has more to share. And I want to hear it—all of it. I stretch my eyes. But I don’t sit up.

He’s explaining to the girls some part of tunnel construction that I already know, his back turned in my direction. So when I feel the pulse of sleepiness again, this time I indulge a little. I have a second before he’ll turn back around. So I let go, fall into the peace of sleep, and the next thing I know I’m blinking and Justin’s looking at me and he’s crestfallen.

“I think you need a nap,” he says. I say, “No! I’m loving this! I’m so excited to hear about this!” He says, “No. It’s okay. We can finish another time.” But I know it’s not okay. I know I’ve broken something perfect. It’s like I’ve dropped the porcelain plate of the day, and now it’s in pieces on the floor.

On Friday night we attend a Good Friday service with friends. The minister asks the question, “What makes the cross good?” and then tells us to let God show us the answer. We pray together, Come Holy Spirit. I bow my head and hold out my empty hands.

The minister continues preaching, but I don’t follow, because I’m being invited somewhere else. I can see it up ahead—a hillside overlooking a valley outside a city… I know this place. It’s the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives. My husband was here just a few days ago. I fell asleep looking at pictures...

Oh.

I already know why I’m here.

Jesus is here. He’s talking to Peter and James and John, but I think (I know?) He’s talking to me too.

Before I hear him, I’m crying. He says, “Couldn’t you keep watch with me for one hour?”

Couldn’t you?

Could I?

Yes.

Maybe?

But I didn’t.

I’m writing this on the Saturday before Easter, so I know there’s almost no chance you’ll read it in time to match the mood of the liturgical calendar. The cross passes quickly. Resurrection’s reign is long. Praise God.

But maybe I’ll find you in your own personal mood and maybe this little reflection will be a blessing.

Here’s all I want to say:

Being a human being is so stupid hard.

I am constantly disappointing the people I love the most. I want to be kind. I want to be generous. I want to love them and protect them and give them every good thing and all of my self.

But then I fall asleep while my husband is sharing pictures from his once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Or I say something too blunt about my daughter’s outfit.

Or I wait too long to make dinner and I’m so hangry and there are no groceries in the house and I snap at anyone who gets too close.

Jesus asks his apostles, Stay with me. Pray with me. Love me. And they want to. They really do. But they can’t.

I mean, maybe they could. But also, they couldn’t.

It was late after a long day. They’d worked hard to prepare the Passover meal. They’d feasted, had a couple glasses of wine. They’d listened to Jesus preach (for who knows how long) about complex things they couldn’t quite get their heads around. They’d discovered one of their friends was a traitor. Peter had been rebuked. Luke says they were “exhausted from sorrow.” But now it’s dark and quiet. And the grass is soft. And sleep pulls like gravity, and it tastes so sweet.

They should have stayed awake. That’s true. Jesus says so. But they didn’t. And maybe that’s okay? Or maybe it’s not okay, but… inevitable?

Jesus says about his sleep-prone friends, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

When He comes back from praying a second time, he sees “their eyes [are] heavy” and lets them sleep.

What makes the cross good?

Maybe an answer is, The cross picks up the pieces of the porcelain plate.

I want Jesus to fix my humanness, to keep me from dropping things and hurting people. And, in a way, He does. He shapes me in His image. He fills me with His Spirit. He guides me into truth. He shows me what it looks like to stay awake.

But also.

I want Jesus to fix my humanness and, in a way, He doesn’t. I remain imperfect and unable—sleepy and weak. Instead of making me perfect with a wave of His wand, Jesus lets me stumble my way through the tension of not-yet. Maybe to help me have compassion for others. Maybe to remind me to depend on Him. Whyever He waits, He waits, takes His time with my completion. In the meantime, He offers grace for mistakes and redemption for the consequences.

And that is what makes the cross good—First Jesus forgives us for putting Him there and then, miracle of all miracles, He uses our failure (our hate and envy and pride and selfishness, our murderous hearts and hands) to save the world.

So maybe it’s not so bad to be weak and make mistakes and fall asleep and break the plate?

It would be better to be perfect. It will be better one day.

But for now, the shame can be wiped away, like tears in a handkerchief. And the broken pieces can be surrendered—offered up for a glorious second life.

-JL

P.S. We are now only three episodes away from the end of The Happiest Saddest People. I highly recommend you jump in. It is a porcelain plate in the hands of God.