Not Kneaded

When I was small,

My mommy would make our daily bread,

Her loaves were round-topped

Golden, delicious softness.

But still, I liked it better to make my own,

She gave a lump of dough,

Showed how to sprinkle flour,

Formed her large loaf.

I formed mine.

And when, all baked, the loaves came   forth

I gloried in the eating of my loaf.

 

She could have done better

Alone.

Her using me showed love.

 

God is making bread,

Crushing the wheat of souls to form

The bread of Church.

He has the power to form

The Body as He will,

And feed the hungry world.

Yet, He chooses to give,

A lump of His work into my hands,

And watching Him,

Through His strength and love,

I carry truth to feed the world.

 

He could do better,

Alone.

His using me shows love.

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4 thoughts on “Not Kneaded

  1. This poem speaks to something that I’ve recently been thinking about, and that is the thing of efficiency. It’s often more efficient and less messy to do things ourselves, but in the rush of efficiency, we become less human and more machine. Loving people is rarely an efficient exercise.

    Liked by 1 person

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