Baked with Love

It’s 8:00 a.m.  I’ve already been up for hours doing my income earning work, getting kids fed and out the door to school.  I am tired.  Not physically tired, but deep in my bones tired.  I’m weary of parenting and wife-ing and income earning and community-ing.  I crave a very long and very selfish vacation.

I keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Soldiering on in faithfulness, believing that deserts turn into rivers.  There is no shortage of tasks to keep me in forward motion and so often they lead me to this place.  The kitchen.  On this particular morning there is no milk for cereal and the cupboards have no food in them, only ingredients.

I tiptoe around my kitchen, lit only by the light above the stove so I don’t wake my sleeping family.  Momentarily envious that they are still sleeping while I’m already hours into work.  Making fresh muffins for breakfast, I reach for the next ingredient, my tracks are stopped.


Baking soda.

This particular can of baking soda made its way into my home after a gentleman in my church needed to  move to a long-term care facility.  His family lovingly cleaned out his home, generous with what they could (just as he would have done) and a box from his panty made its way into mine.

This was his baking soda.

He has since passed away and as I measure out this plain white sand I find myself thinking of him.  He is remembered as a man who listened to others, and knew their names.  Who always made time for his family.  Who prayed with such consistency mountains moved.   A life marked by the very things that are tiring me out.  Routine.  Perseverance.  Consistency.  Showing up wholly.  Wash-rinse-repeat.  Recalling his life renews my faith and gives me hope that I won’t always be tired.

It is not lost on me that the very thing raising my spirits will also raise these muffins. Isn’t that like Him; leaving bread crumbs of encouragement in plain sight.  All we have to do is look up.


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