Ramadan is in full swing for all of our Muslim friends.  As I go about town, I notice many tired faces as people continue running their businesses, providing for their families during this season of low blood sugar.  This is a holy time for our Islamic friends and my prayer is that many of them will hear from God as they seek him during these weeks.

The focus on fasting all around me reminds me of something rather surprising I experienced during the last time I did any significant fasting.

It was lent and I had decided to go vegan as a way to honor what the Lord had given up for me.  I guess that might not sound like much since I’m not a huge meat fan anyway, but I’m really big into cheese….and yoghurt…and butter. I really prefer tea with milk in it…even my rooibos tea. And I was pretty much stuck with rooibos  as I was fasting from caffeine too.

I’m not a great faster. In fact, I don’t usually do fasting at all unless it’s just from tea and coffee or something like that. Sometimes I fast from my favorite music, but I try to avoid fasting from food. I use the excuse that I have some kind of over-sensitivity to low blood sugar and it’s not worth my family’s while for me to be going without. I mean, if I put off a meal by ten or fifteen minutes, I’m already shaking. My husband can see it coming on. I get an agitated look in my eyes, a decidedly grumpy tone in my voice and my mind goes all hazy.

So fasting is not really my forte. In fact, the only time I’ve ever really crashed the car properly was when I was trying to do a three day fast. Nobody was hurt, though my bank account was injured some.

But I was doing this vegan thing in an effort to let my cravings rise to the surface in order to prompt me to pray. When I was making Heather’s sandwich in the morning, slicing through that creamy chunk of good cheese, I would talk to God about the things I was craving to see happen.  Spooning yoghurt into her bowl, I would tell him about things I long for.

I don’t know if it was the fasting, but one morning I woke up sharply aware of the disappointing shape of my heart. Somehow, as I was coming into full consciousness, I was flooded with grief over the lack of love that I let myself live with.

I propped myself up on my pillows, longing for a cup of good strong tea with milk, and began reading 1 Corinthians 13. I read it through three times and made some notes about what stood out to me.

But as I went on into my morning, the sadness of being such a looser when it comes to loving others remained my dominant mood.

And that’s when I started thinking about fried eggs.

Gosh, I love fried eggs! I pretty much love all eggs, but I really have a penchant for perfectly fried eggs. Especially if they have hot peppers sprinkled over them. Oh yea! I’ve got this amazing bread that is made of multiple grains. It toasts into these perfect slices of crisp, hot goodness that receive the applied butter perfectly. Then I spoon honey over their beautiful surfaces before dropping one spicy, gorgeously fried egg onto each piece.

Oh, I know. Sweet and savory mixed. My poor English friends would have a fit.

So I was thinking about the eggs and I started to crave them. The prayers started up fast and furiously.

But someone was interrupting me. In my bad mood and hungry state, I started hearing God say, “Make the eggs.” Of course I doubted that this was him. I fought my temptations with more prayer. The voice came more clearly. “Make the eggs.”

Now I started to argue. I was sure this was my animal-products-starved stomach saying to make the eggs, but if it WAS God, I still thought it was a dumb idea.

But God insisted. “Make the eggs!”

Finally I asked him what on earth he was doing. Couldn’t he see I was trying to fast FOR HIM? Couldn’t he see I was denying myself for a noble purpose?

“And can’t you see I’m trying to love you?” God argued back. “I want to love you! I want to give you good gifts! I want you to enjoy my good love, provided in the form of two fried eggs.”

There I was, so keenly aware of my un-loveliness. There I was, so disappointed in my failure to live out the love of God. And there was God, pursuing me with a bouquet of flowers that looked uncommonly like breakfast.

I caved in. The toast popped up all glorious. The butter melted in and the honey glazed over just right. The eggs were exactly the way I like them: hot, covered in black and red peppers, with soft and slightly runny yokes.

I moved outside into the sunshine and ate my eggs. I smiled up at the sky and enjoyed God. In all my ugliness, I felt supremely loved.