Six Loaves Later

I baked some bread a few days ago.  This sounds very petty, but it isn't.  It's huge.  I baked bread from scratch with my own two hands in my tiny little kitchen.  It took me 7.5 hours (even though the recipe says 6 hours.  I'm at the beginner's pace, I guess).  It was one of the holiest things I have ever done.  And if you think I'm being dramatic, then bake a loaf of bread from scratch.  You'll shed a tear when you take it out of the oven and I'll never say I told you so.

I'm never in my apartment for more than six hours at a time unless I'm sleeping.  I always have some excuse to be doing something.  Anything.  I'm an introvert and I crave alone time, but I'm hardly ever home during the day.  Somehow, recently, I think I lost the gift of being silent and still, and I've been feeling the consequences of that.  I've been stressed with more things than the usual things.  Life tends to do that ebb and flow, doesn't it?  Where everything feels right and then it doesn't anymore.  I think somehow I'm finding myself in the latter more often than not, lately.

When I get overwhelmed I tend to crave tangible things.  Things I can create with my hands.  I used to paint a lot.  Not that I was good at it, it was just therapeutic for me.  Or I'd try calligraphy or writing.  I've really been wanting to try a pottery class.  Anything I could do to with my hands to get them dirty and create and escape my mind for awhile, or listen to my mind for awhile—whichever I needed.  Do you want to know why I think I do this?  Because I used to cut myself in high school when I would feel everything and nothing at all.  It was a coping skill I turned to because it made sense to me.  It's something I've only recently started talking about openly, because I used to be so ashamed of it I never wanted anyone to know.  But now when I'm in situations when I used to want to cut, I do something productive with my hands instead, which usually means I create something.  I haven't cut since high school, but I still get overwhelmed and numb sometimes.  And one of the things that made baking this bread so holy for me was the fact that I used my energy and my hands to create something nourishing instead of using them for destruction and harm.  Every time I choose something better for these hands, it's a big victory in my little world.

I've been reading this book called Out of the House of Bread, and it talks about spiritual disciplines paralleled with baking bread—which sounds odd unless you read it and realize it's one of the most creative things ever.  It includes the recipe I used.  I told some of my friends about it because I was fascinated, and they would casually mention something like, Oh yeah, my grandma used to make bread. Fun!  Or, yeah I've baked bread before.  And I'm like….WHAT?  Why are all these people baking bread and I've never even thought to do this?  Is this a thing?  Do people do this all the time?  I was terrified to bake bread.  I was scared that I'd follow the directions perfectly and it would somehow not turn out, which would naturally equate to me being a bigger failure in life rather than just in the kitchen.  People just casually talking about it like it was easy and I'm over here thinking I almost tried to thaw a whole frozen turkey in my dryer once…baking bread doesn't sound like something I should be entrusted with.  Also, this recipe had NINE steps, and listen—if I'm browsing through recipes looking for something to make, if there are more than 3 steps, you lost me.  Nope.  Next.  I don't have time for that.  I have other important things to do.  Like breathing.

I was also wondering what the whole point of it was.  I was reading a book about the point of it, but I was really wondering if my intentions were just to bake a loaf of bread to be able to say I baked a loaf of bread.  The baking equivalent to running a marathon.  Who runs a marathon for any other reason other than to be able to say they've run a marathon?  Like, do people bake bread just to say they did it or do they genuinely enjoy it?  People who say "Baking/cooking is so therapeutic for me!" confuse me to pieces.  I'm like, Yeah.  Wow.  I cook to survive and bake when I have to contribute something to a potluck.  It's not that I hate it, but I don't really love it, you know?  And I don't even keep bread in my apartment because I don't eat it much.  What would I even do with an entire loaf of bread?

Regardless of all the hesitation and angst I had about this entire ordeal, I decided I needed to do it.  I just had to.  There was something oddly peaceful sounding about it, something intentional and devoted.  It was going to take patience and time and effort.  I didn't know what would come out of me doing this, but I knew I needed to do it.  And knowing myself, I knew if I didn't dedicate a day to baking bread, I'd never do it.  So, Tuesday.  Tuesday was bread day.  I woke up, drove to the store, and bought every ingredient I needed and then settled into my little apartment for the day.

Let me tell you what happened while I prepared this bread.

The first part of the book says to go into your kitchen and pray.  Pray over your kitchen, ask for it to be blessed.  Then, you're supposed to bake bread once a week for six weeks.  So you'd end up baking six loaves.  Really the recipe makes you divide it into two loaves, so twelve loaves I guess.  But to me it's one loaf because...it just is.  It's one setting to make the two, so I think of it as one.  Anyway, the author of the book suggests that you invite a friend over once or twice while you're baking to see what kind of conversations happen.  I'd texted a friend asking her if she wanted to come over while I baked, but it didn't work out because she had to be somewhere within the hour.  I was somewhat relieved because my apartment wasn't pristine and I didn't have to worry about tidying up, but I did the part where I stood in my kitchen and just kind of awkwardly prayed, I don't know what will happen when I bake this thing, but make it holy.  Make it real.  Make me still and purposeful and thoughtful and patient.  Maybe a friend can come over at some point and we can have a great conversation.  I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I know I'm supposed to do this, and I figure You know why. Maybe I'll just make a loaf of bread to give to friends and nourish their bodies, or maybe You'll show me something in the six hours it will take to create it.  Whichever it is, I'm game.  

And so I started.

Somewhere between the yeast mixing with some other ingredients and trying to stir 8 and 3/4 cups of flour with "warm-almost-hot" (what?) water, I thought, This was a terrible idea.  About ten different times I figured I was doing something wrong and stopped to re-read the steps twelve times through, only to shrug and guess I was doing it right, so I kept going.  And at least 50 times I thought, so. much. flour. 

Right after I started this whole mess, my friend Kirby sent me a text randomly asking if I was working and if I could get lunch.  I told her I wasn't working but that I was baking bread and couldn't leave my apartment, and that she was more than welcome to come over while I baked (I swallowed my pride about my apartment not being perfectly clean).  She did, and when she walked in she said she was kind of a mess.  And I said, Come sit on the counter and talk to me while I knead this dough.  She sat and talked.  I kneaded and listened.  I could feel the anxiety and frustration and confusion in every word she said.  Probably because I feel all of those things too about what I want to do next with my life and my career.  I just listened, and had no wise or pretty words for her to ease her situation.  I just thought, Me too.   To hear someone basically say I absolutely know what I want to do with my life.  And I have absolutely no idea what to do next with my life.  All I could think was, me too, sis.  Then I had to let it rise for 2 hours, so we moved to my living room and talked to the whole rising time.  We bounced around about our families and careers and church and so many things.  She had to leave right when I had to start the next steps.  There was something about the timing of her coming over and the timing of the baking steps that felt perfectly coordinated even though we hadn't planned it.  I love when that happens.  I think we both needed each other that day.  Also, she brought me plastic wrap because I didn't have any.  Lifesaver.

After Kirby left I followed the next steps which, shockingly, involved more flour and more rising.  During some of the rising time I sat and wrote and did some laundry and whatever else I had to do to not go insane waiting for dough to rise.  I made myself promise no social media and no Netflix during the 6 hours, just baking and productive things.  And FINALLY it was time to put the dough in the oven.  35 minutes of baking.

First I sat on my counter staring at the timer counting down.  I was nervous.  Kicking my legs back and forth, staring at the oven.  Then I ended up just sitting on my kitchen floor, leaning against the wall, staring at the oven.  Praying.  Praying for the bread not to come out as a crouton.  Praying for my friends' marriages—some that are healthy and full of life and some that are barely hanging on.  Praying for my family.  Praying for coworkers.  Praying for the life group and the church I've found and the individuals I've met there.  Praying for wisdom.  Praying for the man I'll marry someday.  Praying the fruits of the Spirit over my life.  Praying about my career.  And when I ran out of words for all of those things, I just sat.  Still.  Knowing the Lord knows it all even when it's a mess for me.

And then the timer went off and I nervously pulled the bread from the oven and sat it on the stove.  I would be lying if I said I didn't tear up a little.  Oh my gosh.  It looks like bread.  It smells like bread.  I think it might be edible.  I just stared at it and have never felt more proud in my entire life.  I felt like I could conquer the world.

I let it cool for the amount of time suggested then invited my friend over to eat a slice with me.  He had been really supportive of the whole thing, even texting me during the day to make sure I hadn't given up.  So I figured he deserved a piece of the bread.  We ate it, and it was delicious!!  I was in complete disbelief that I'd made that.  I have no idea how it turned out so good.  He said, That's the most beautiful loaf of bread of all time.  You did perfect.  And then He asked me, What did you learn?  Didn't you say you wanted to get something out of this whole thing?  And I thought for a minute and said that I felt weirdly at peace, which is something I had been craving.  So I was happy with that.  I wondered out loud what I'd know six loaves later, since I felt like I'd learned so much with the first one—both about baking and about life.

I don't know what I'll know six loaves later, but here is what I know now: what you learn during the process is more valuable than the end product.  Being intentional about something, creating space in your life for disciplines you think are important, creating something beautiful and beneficial instead of creating destruction and harm, taking time to try something new, being still and present (and covered in flour).  All of those things leave you more whole than before you started.  While I'm proud of that bread, I'm more thankful for the things it gave me in the process.  I know now how to bake a loaf of bread, but what it really gave me this time around was the gift of slowing down again, staying put, and being patient.  I needed those things in my life.  And I needed conversation with a sweet friend that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been holed up in my apartment surrounded by flour and mixing bowls.

I've decided to give this a shot at least 5 more times in the next 5 weeks, and bake my way through some more prayers and more sitting and more patience.  I realize I sound like a total hippy, but I'm kind of embracing this whole bread-making-badass feeling.  So here's to seeing what happens six loaves later.