Sunday morning offering.

One Sunday before breakfast, I read Father John Kavanaugh's reflections on the Baptism of Jesus in The Word Encountered (Orbis Books, 1996). He addresses the controversy: Why did Jesus need Baptism if he was sinless? And, if Jesus did not sin, was he really like us, fully human?

A tough dilemma for one who has not yet had coffee. Yet Kavanaugh resolves it expertly, explaining that to misunderstand Jesus' Baptism is to misunderstand our humanity. Christ came to reveal us to ourselves, to enter fully into what it means to be human. "Our sin is nothing other than the rejection of the truth of our humanity." Jesus shows us our true faces, ourselves at our best. "He accepts full solidarity with us even if it means being seen as a sinner."

What heartening words. He is like me; I am like him. I'm sure I've heard it before, but the truth strikes with particular force in this chilly kitchen, with sun glinting off the snow outside the window. I feel affirmed in all that I am, the messy parts as well as the better ones, because Jesus became one of us. Long before anyone measured IQ, analyzed us with Myers-Briggs, or slotted our personality types on the Enneagram, Jesus embraced the whole lot--introverts and extroverts, sensates and intuitives, thinkers and feelers, crusaders and artists--the whole kit and caboodle.

To such a stunning act of generosity, how does one respond? I suppose each person's answer would be different. But I resolve to enter more fully into my humanity, savoring it as he did. Specifically, that means life as a layperson, mother, and wife. I have many friends who are vowed religious, and I recently spent several days on retreat with them. But the contrast of our lifestyles only serves to heighten my appreciation for who I am called to be.

My family still sleeps in the Sunday quiet, but I think of each member with fondness. Then I do something I have not done in quite a while: I prepare a huge breakfast, which, with our heightened cholesterol consciousness, we do not eat often. Somehow it seems fitting to celebrate the Baptism of Jesus with scrambled eggs and bacon, cinnamon rolls, hot chocolate, and fragrant coffee. When the family emerges, drowsy and wrinkled in their flannel pajamas and robes, they will feast.

Like most moms, I cook many meals in a frenzy. With hungry hordes at my back, I whiz through a routine learned over a quarter century. Whip out those plates, pour that juice, get the show on the road. It is hardly a contemplative moment.

But here in the Sunday silence, free of pressure, I cook more reflectively. I remember Saint Teresa of Avila saying that the height of her prayer was learning to watch an egg fry. I don't become eloquent about stirring yolks and whites. But I do so with an awareness of an opportunity to nurture my family on a cold morning. It is a chance none of my religious friends have. It is our particular path to the holy, right here at home.

Later in the morning, we take another path, to church. With the frigidity of the subzero temperatures that day, our worship space seems particularly inviting. People leave their coats on for Mass, joke about the weather, and create a warmth simply in their bulky gathering. Ah, this is what he meant. This is the humanity Jesus entered and loved.

A reminder of our Baptism comes as we are sprinkled liberally with water from a pine branch. The children giggle; adults previously focused on the cold weather are startled by the drops on their skin. It calls me to do what Christ did: enter deeply into what is uniquely mine. Too often I try end runs around my humanity. I attempt to overcome my limitations, run faster, do more, ignore my body, and zoom over buildings faster than a speeding bullet. In an era that exalts "Supermom," it's not an empty temptation.

Yet Jesus seems to be calling us into something utterly different: a simple appreciation of the beauty of this human state, with all its weaknesses and sorrows.

When we enter into it as he did, we look with new eyes on old sources of strength--family, home, church, scrambled eggs on Sunday morning.

By Kathy Coffey. Reprinted with permission from Thresholds of Prayer, published by St. Anthony Messenger Press, 1998, 800-488-0488.