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| Joshua in high school, wearing the white tea-shirt with a green symbol |
At age two,
Joshua would pull up a chair and watch me knead dough for whole wheat bread.
He patted and
pushed near my hands. “Mama, I wanna help.”
I washed and
dried his pudgy hands and stood him in a chair in front of me. “Okay, now push
down like this.”
He shoved his
palm into the soft dough and grunted. “Like that?”
I dipped my chin.
“Like that.”
At one point, he
said, “That’s hard, Mama,” and he’d make grunting noises and keep on pushing
the dough.
Later, as the
bread baked, he said, “Is it ready now?”
“No, not yet.”
As the loaves
cooled on a rack, Joshua asked, “Now it’s ready?”
I pointed at a
chair at the table. “Sit down. I’ll bring you a piece with butter and jam.”
Joshua kneeled on
his spot at the table, folding his hands. I placed the platter of bread in
front of him. We prayed our “Thank You, God” prayer. At “amen,” my guy grabbed
his bread and chomped into its warmth. He stared at me and smiled, bread poking
out from the corners of his lips. With his mouth still full, he said, “Yummy,
Mama.”
Forward through
time to twenty-one years later. “Mom,” Joshua said, “these buckwheat groats I’m
making are turning out this time.”
I peered into the
skillet next to Joshua. Sure enough, they were not a gray blob but held their
color and firmer texture. “Now you’ll have to teach me how to make that, Son.”
We sat down to a
lunch of buckwheat groats and ate the entire full skillet.
Father, I cherish
the times when my son and I cooked and baked together. In Jesus’s holy name,
I’m grateful. Amen.
Reader Journal
~Your Mother
Memories~
~Your Prayer of
Praise~
~A Scripture of
Encouragement~
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