|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.
~Your Mother Memories~
~Your Prayer of Praise~
~A Scripture of Encouragement~