Tears and Tiramisu
Jean, a baker with a humanitarian heart, discovers how Jesus’ blessing for those who mourn rises like sweet comfort, much like layers of tiramisu on the soul.
BEATITUDES
Wandering Armenian
7/13/20252 min read


Tears and Tiramisu
Jean Baptista cracked fresh eggs into a bowl, beating them slowly as the mixer hummed. Today, he was making tiramisu -the Italian “pick me up.” Somehow, its name seemed perfect for what was stirring in his heart that day.
He had been rereading the Sermon on the Mount, and the second Beatitude called to him:
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Jean had seen mourning up close faces hollowed by loss in war-torn villages, mothers burying their children, fathers burying their dreams. He had offered them bread, water, and a listening ear, but deep down, he always feared that their grief was beyond any comfort he could offer.
Now, alone in his kitchen, he felt a fresh wave of mourning — for his own lost purpose, for the world he could no longer save. He beat the creamy mascarpone harder, willing away the ache.
Yet these words of Jesus refused to fade. Blessed are those who mourn.
How could there be blessing in this raw, relentless grief?
Jean layered espresso-soaked ladyfingers in the dish, gently pressing them down. He remembered how Jesus Himself had known sorrow. He had wept for Jerusalem, for Lazarus, for the world. Jean saw it clearly: this was a God who stepped into our tears, who did not stand apart from our grief but joined us in it, promising comfort, promising to lift us like espresso lifts tired bones.
He finished layering the tiramisu, dusting it with cocoa like a final benediction. Its sweetness was built on bitterness -the strong espresso, the tears, the mourning. And yet, when the layers came together, it was a miracle: a dessert that lifted the heart.
That, he thought, was what Jesus meant. Comfort doesn’t erase the mourning, just as sugar doesn’t erase the bitter coffee. Instead, it transforms it-weaving it into something new, a sweetness that leaves a lasting memory on the heart.
Jean set the tiramisu in the fridge to chill, praying over it. Maybe a neighbour had lost someone. Maybe a friend felt alone. He would share this dish - comfort layered on comfort- and remind them that God’s kingdom is for the broken-hearted, the tear-stained, the hopeless.
In the stillness of his small bakery, Jean smiled. These Beatitudes were more than words; they were bread and sweetness, comfort and hope, espresso and cream. And like tiramisu, they were a taste of heaven’s healing for every tear-soaked soul.
