I tuck a silky strand behind her ear and think of the things she will miss hearing when her ears are so little.
You and I, we talk about this.
It's a different kind of talk.
It's honest and tearful, but not desperate and hurried.
Because I heard a story about you.
A story about a neighbor.
A neighbor giving bread.
After persistence you gave three loaves.
Why three...
He was only one man...
He only had one visitor....
And I feel like the neighbor man on the outside of the house.
No bread, only a visitor.
And I'm knocking waiting for my loaves.
And the door it's opened and you hand the neighbor three pieces of bread.
And I watch the story unfold, black ink to white paper tell.
One loaf for the visitor.
One loaf for the man.
One loaf to offer the visitor to show the generosity of the community.
This three loaf story, it's changed the way you and I talk.
It's changed the way I stand and knock.
Impatience that someone else will have my loaf and I will go with out? Impossible with a three loaf God.
Inclination to hoard? Not necessary with a three loaf God.
Anxiety for the woman laying in St. Francis, the woman with two ginger, sprinkled faced boys. No. Not with a three loaf God.
Fearfulness for what kind of bread I will get... Or not get? No. Not with a three loaf God.
Discouragement from lack of bread on the first and second or fifteenth knock? Not when I know generosity is coming.
Worry for this sleeping blonde bitty with no daddy? Why, when our daddy is a three loaf papa?
And you, three loaf God, you precious Jesus you are not only the neighbor who gives to reflect generosity you are the visitor who sits at the table and eats with me. You are the bread that sustains me.
Our talking, it's starting to reflect this three loaf reality.
And slipping blonde bitty into her pink sheets. I ask for bread for me and for her and know there will still be left overs for generosities sake because you are a three loaf God.
