There was a time in my domestic past when I made bread. This was before gluten became the enemy, and even predates bread machines. My efforts were enthusiastic, if unsuccessful. I mean there was a loaf when I was finished but the adjectives that could be assigned to it were ones like dense, and brickish. Banana bread is more rewarding, and continues to show up regularly, but Odhner sandwiches are constructed with the pre-sliced variety. My daughters tell me that bread elicits a different level of appreciation in Spain and France. There is even an idiom to that effect. 

 

"Ella es un pedao de pan," is a compliment. "She's a piece of bread."

 

In church the children were invited to come up and mess around with a lump of dough. I mean knead it. Probably their only experience was with play do, but they knew how to squish. The minister talked about the yeast that is added to flour.

 

"Heaven is like leaven, which a woman took and hid in three measures of meal until it was all leavened." Luke 13

 

Watching six little kids, and the woman who had a bona fide batch in process, it was obvious that kneading is work. The push and pull seems to wake up the tiny organisms in yeast, causing them to grow. 

 

Then came time to step back. Letting dough rise is another part of the process. One young man even knew the legit term. Prove it. Ironically, this is another variety of hard. After we have strong armed with life, God invites us to let Him take over. Wait. Let the miracle ferment. 

 

Even though I won no county fair ribbons with my oatmeal raisin, I have had the experience of do-si-doing with God. I lean into a flat relationship, exert some muscle, then let fallow time begin. One without the other doesn't do the trick. 

 

But if there is any question in my mind about who the real Bread of Life is, I need to give Him a chance to prove it.