The spell had been broken. I was free. The toilet had become once more only a toilet, the garbage bag merely a garbage bag. The heavy darkness that had inhabited the bathroom and kitchen had vanished. In its place was a shimmer and sparkle that radiated, a radiant glory that for five years, despite my endless cleaning of the toilet and my perpetual task of taking out the garbage, never could be compared. I danced in celebration.
But it was cut short. My dance over bulimia’s dead body was interrupted by a sudden rapping at my door. A bit embarrassed, hoping whoever it was had not seen my freedom dance, I went to answer the door. It was the executor of Bulimia’s last will and testament. He was standing there holding, what I assumed, was Bulimia’s will. I took the document with weak fingers, fingers that had for the last time seen the back of my throat. As my eyes skimmed over the paper, certain words jumped out at me: restrictive eating, warped hunger signals, secretive eating, binging. My reddened cheeks felt the cool rush of tears. Unable to raise my eyes I found myself asking whether I had to take the document, whether it was optional. A voice droned, “You are Bulimia’s heir. And as such, this is what you have inherited.” Silence followed and my eyes darted up to find his eyes looking past me at the dead body that was there on the kitchen floor. I too, turned around and I noticed for the first time what seemed to be a smerk forever frozen on the ashen face.
The executor’s voice interrupted my thoughts “If you have any questions about your inheritance, feel free to contact me.”
As I sunk to the ground, I felt my daughter’s body clamber onto my lap. She had her crayons and wanted to color. She wanted to color on the unwanted piece of paper that had so drastically changed my life. In a numbed state of mind, I released the paper to her eager hands. Soon the will was covered in her sweet scribbling. But for all of its intensity of color, nothing was dark enough or strong enough to hide the awful words that lay underneath. In fact, somehow, her scrawlings seemed to accentuate the words. Having finished, she wanted to hang her picture on the fridge. And so together we found a magnet and put it on display, all the time thinking to myself how careful I would need to be to take it down anytime we had company.
And as my hands dropped to my sides and I stepped back staring at the piece of artwork mixed with the words restrictive eating, warped hunger signals, secretive eating, binging, another knock at the door brought me out of my stunned state, and with little thought I numbingly found myself headed back to the door. It was another executor. But this time He stood Executor of His own last will and testament, written in His own blazing blood. He stands, resurrected from the dead, bearing His own document. A document that imparts to us the inheritance of the Father. And this inheritance is not only in this life, but bleeds over into eternity. Bulimia’s will did not suddenly disappear as I put the last will and testament of Jesus up on my fridge. But it’s fate has been sealed – a battle that will one day no longer rage in my flesh, a testament to what His great mercy and grace overcomes, found only through the blood of Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen. Hebrews 13:20-21
Now the God of peace who brought up from the dead the great Shepherd of the sheep through the blood of the eternal covenant [Jesus himself was an heir of the last will and testament that his blood set in force; see Hebrews 1:2], even Jesus our Lord, equip you in every good thing to do His will, working in us that which is pleasing in his sight [that’s the new covenant promise], through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen.