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Wednesday, November 21, 2012

On Baking Bread.

I was just on the phone with my mom, talking about baking bread.
I was telling her about how I'm getting ready to attempt making some whole wheat honey bread for tomorrow, and she was talking about how she often makes sourdough.  So we discussed the different processes of the bread-making (I know, don't you wish you were us?).
We talked about how sourdough bread sometimes takes longer to rise than whole wheat bread. 
We brought up the fact that though the process is similar, it's also different.  
Some breads take more kneading, or less rising time, or a different kind of flour.  Some breads are more dense while others are lighter, fluffier.

Just minutes later, I'm sitting here confessing to Jesus my frustration with the my never-ending battle against comparison.  And I'm pouring my heart out to Him about a sweet friend of mine and the tough stuff she's been handed, wondering why it's so hard for her right now and so different for others.

Immediately, I think about the bread.  
I hear my mom's matter-of-fact-ness, "Some breads bake quicker than others."
And I remember telling her why I must use one type of flour to balance out another so that the bread turns out just right.

I don't understand why certain things are the way they are. 
But I know that the end product will be beautiful if we allow the process to take place.

I don't know why some people experience more or less moments of tightness or infertility or loneliness or exhaustion or whatever your something is.

The process is different for every. single. loaf.

And if we get caught up in looking at our process versus her process or our time in the heat or the darkness or the kneading versus hers, we'll get nothing but confusion and dissatisfaction.

Because it's more than likely the Baker is doing something different with you than He is with me.  And we're both going to be delicious and beautiful when we're finished; we'll both offer a sweet aroma if we just submit to the timing and the ingredients we're given.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I want to claim that I'm thankful for the moments of knuckling and kneading, of darkness and instability, of heat and change.  I mouth it, and then I voice it, and along the way, my soul cries it out to her Maker: thank you.  I thank Him for this process.  And I thank Him for her process, and your process, and for the glorious, wonderful work He is doing in you and for what you will become.