It was a bite.
No, it was more than a bite. Her lips hesitated on the flesh for a moment before she let her teeth sink in and the sweet juices filled her mouth. As that bite sat on her tongue, it was as if lightening from heaven stuck down ripping apart the particles making up the very molecules of her bones. And as she looked down, she became aware that what she saw was seen. It was as if there were a grand clock whose second hand made its very first brush against the very first tick mark with a soft silence that somehow managed to shake the ground upon which she stood. Each breath from her nostrils carried the bitter perfume of that bite, and as she moved toward a nearby fig tree, she stepped on a twig. It cracked, and she felt a sharp pain in the arch of her foot.
Crouched there with him, they trembled. And then they heard His voice. There had never been such desperate longing to run to His arms and have Him kiss her forehead, and yet she could not even lift her eyes to meet His. Something had been set in motion by that bite in which no one, not her children or her children's children would be able to look on His face until the Child was born.
And she began living in terms of versions of herself. She could not see the continuity because a life that had been created for timelessness no longer could fathom eternity. In essence, she had to fragment her life because the slow erosion of it was too painful not to mark. There was the garden version, which was only remembered on the quietist of nights when the chill in the air caused her to pull up the blankets to the top of her lips. There was the pre-baby version, the mother-version, the version where her hips were rounded and her laughter was full even as it trailed off into a sigh. And then came the thin, gray version with withered breasts and curled fingers and curved back. She rested her head gazing upon her lot, remembering lost sons, and a final breath escaped her lips still bearing the fragrance of that bite.
I am of this women. Her bite lingers in my very own lungs. I go to sleep and my aching joints cause me to wake. I've lost babies too. In the quietest of nights, I've wondered if He sees me. But what I know is that the God who sent her out from the garden, who was ripped from her very soul as the flesh ripped off the side of the fruit, has woven Himself into the fabric of the world around me. Everything attests to his glory, his order, his Promise. When timelessness confined itself into the person of Jesus, God breathed in new life, entered into the spaces between the particles that make up the molecules of my bones, so that I am never ever without Him again.
And when I don't see Him, and when I can't feel His kisses on my forehead, He is with me. When time erodes my flesh and wears on my hope, He is with me and waiting outside of time to embrace me. It is amazing that a God so great, so everywhere, so big, loves. He loves. He enters in, he heals, he binds, he restores.