I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.”
While mixing bread dough in the slats of morning light, the cuckoo clock bird blasted out a reedy song over the counters of silence before his little door slammed shut.
The seconds, they press into and etch the glass of mortality: the flakes of their design going by, unseen, in their secret complexity, settling eventually on the leveling fields of finalities. How I need to learn to cup time, like a child’s face, here and now and begin again to see what is necessary in the depths of another and feed those who come before me in ways they need: my kitchen become a sanctuary in all its moods or chaos. To receive the bread of life the Lord offers us and then become the giving, while simply being fully present to the dough in my hands; to the disquieting humility of God.