Quite a bit has been ripped from my hurried life lately. Like bullets pulled from my back, I feel wounded and empty in spaces that used to be filled to the brim and beyond.
My normal response? Hustle. Caffeinate. Push, push, push until those spaces are filled. Ideate over the stress that comes from the above. Repeat.
This time, I’m aware of my tendency to force myself forward and detach rather than to rest in faith.
I feel my body yearning for this rest, for intentional presence, for a liturgical response to refocus my vision on what actually matters.
Liturgy is defined as a response to and participation in the sacred through activities reflecting praise, thanksgiving, remembrance, supplication or repentance.
Today, my liturgical activity of choice is baking bread.
There is something sacred in it.
The process of feeding and tending and praying and waiting for sourdough to rise over three days is an allegory in itself; no wonder Jesus is called the bread of life.
Then there’s the kneading of dough and measuring of grams, which forces me to focus on the flour and the feel of my sticky fingers rather than my frustration and failure.
To press oily fingertips deep in focaccia, hiding garlic cloves beneath the surface, makes me grateful for the gifts of groceries and grace that I’ve been given.
The smell of an oven in use and the dipping of the resulting crusty loaf in rich balsamic vinegar brings me to bask in the bounty that I can so easily miss in the bustle of busyness.
And so, my wounds lead me to worship today by the baking of bread. By feeding my family. By choosing gratitude for ingredients and hot ovens and the Bread of Life. By repenting for the life, I take for granted or overfill with futility, which leaves no room for leavening or levity or liturgy.
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