I envy twins. The kind of twins where they complete each other’s sentences and understand each other more than any of us can understand each other. I want that.

But then my thoughts went a different direction. My thoughts were led a different direction.

Don’t you already feel that immense closeness to your children?

I also feel very, very close to my children. My little son does not have to be exactly like me for me to feel breath-taking love for his interests and accomplishments.

How would you feel if he were just like you, how would you feel if he grew perfectly?

My heart would stop. The wonder of it. Oh! It would be better than a twin.


God had better than a twin. He had a son.

They were close. They were like one person. His son never did wrong. His son never ran away. They planned great things together, and did them.

But on one passover holiday in Jerusalem, they saw the reality of what their plans meant–horrible suffering, betrayal, death. The son begged for their to be another way. “Take this cup from me,” was his touching, childlike plea. Because the son and the father were closer than twins, we must assume that the father was just as horrified, and just as desperate to find another way.

But there was no other way.

The father watched the son that he loved, that he was so proud of, go to the garden and suffer beyond what a person can suffer. The father offered what help he could allow himself. He sent an angel to support him.

The father watched the son that he loved be taken prisoner. Made fun of. Beaten. Tortured. Nailed. Bleeding. Dying.

In his extremity, when he could not bear it anymore, the son became like a little child again. He cried, “Daddy!” He cried, “Where are you? Why did you leave me, daddy?” The father also could not bear it. He withdrew.

The son died.

On the third day, the son beat death. Fully in the flesh, he spoke a few words to a friend he saw-a few kind words of comfort, the father could not and did not begrudge them, it was so like his son–but he would not let the woman touch him. His first touch in his perfect body would be his father. Father and son, beautiful beyond tears, closer than twins, embraced. The separation was over.

And beyond the son, bright in his brightness, a crowd of other children streaming in, then and for years to come, redeemed and raised through the perfect son, also pressing in to cry ‘Abba’ and embrace.


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