Ice Cream and Brussels Sprouts

While talking to a friend on Thursday, I told her that I'd like my life to be like ice cream.

She was slightly puzzled, so I went on: I have this picture in my head, I said, of a little girl walking in a neighborhood, wearing a summer dress, eating an ice cream cone.

Most days I want my life to feel like that: ice cream is so easy. You buy it, open it and eat it. So cinchy and so tasty.

But, the more I thought about it, I'm not sure that's the way I want my life to be.

I might want it to be more like brussels sprouts.

No kid likes brussels sprouts...I mean, I didn't like them until this year. {Seriously, until 2013. And I didn't know it was plural brussels sprouts until writing this post!}

They begin pretty gross: covered in dirt, some of the leaves have tiny holes in them where they've been eaten away by insects, the stems are uneven and pretty much inedible. They need to be washed, trimmed, maybe peeled a bit, sliced, seasoned and broiled, before they are something that I'm not bummed to be eating.

You see where I'm going with this, right?
I'd still like to spell it out, if that's okay...mostly because I think it's beneficial for my heart.

I think I am more like these sprouts. I'm messy, covered in dirt and tiny holes that have developed over the years. I have pieces that need to be trimmed and peeled away--some need to be completely hacked off. I'll go through hurts and joys and tests and celebrations and failures...and I totally believe that I will be better for it. {read John 15.} I firmly hope and trust that I will look more and more like Jesus with each day.

So, yeah. In theory, I want to have a life that's pre-packaged mint chocolate chip.
But I am so much better off as a broiled brussels sprout.