He pulled a card. ‘If years could be poured in numbered bottles, what number would you attach to past year?’ Immediately we felt split in two, as we were represented by this stiff grey-ish, bloodled body in a morgue, with one tag attached to each toe. Left. Right. The rest of the body was covered with a white blanket. The first tage immediately blurted out the number two, unequivocally. The other experience tiptoed happily around our hearts and said the number ten. How could two numbers exist and not compete? The question had been singular, so why then did both numbers feel correct as answers?

He pointed us towards the story of Jacob’s two wives, who were competing in childbirth, rivaling with each other, hoping to win their husbands primary affection by having his baby, try after try, baby after baby, not realizing that multiplying Jacob’s offspring was exactly what God had previously promised. They all were in the same situation, with the difference that they were looking with their own hearts and eyes – and therefore hurting – and God was not. The wives would have graded their situation as bad and call it a two.

He pointed us to a point further down in the story, where Jacob was about to meet his brother after a twenty year periode of silence, and showed us how Jacob interpreted the multitude of men accompanying his brother as a threat upon which he acted accordingly, or at least in a way that more than hinted that he wanted to de-escalate the situation. Jacob too, as his wives did earlier, followed his own ears, eyes and heart and with that he followed his own feelings instead of clinging to Gods previous promise to no leave him. Jacob probably would have graded this situation as bad and call it a two. God probably would have said: This is exactly in my plan, I call it a ten.

So it was all a matter of perspective, wasn’t it Daddy? Is that the message of this week? That I am exactly where I am supposed to be, getting up and out of that death house, where my earthly eyes have declined so badly that the only thing I see is darkness, which is death, who calls itself number two. Sneaky sneaky, mister death, suggesting it could always get worse, lowering your (my?) standards to a one or a zero, or even change the rules by pretending not to roam back and forth on an ordinal scale, having now the possibility of dropping below anyone’s expectations, so that when next time I’m talking to someone and they ask me to grade my year, I would say -5.

But then there’s God, meeting me outside of my death house, without my white death blanket on, greeting me into His presence, saying: It was a ten all along, lovy, I am glad you finally see it.