House of Bread


I am three years old and I am hungry. I sit in a honey-colored wooden chair and press the small of my back up against its hard slats. My two brothers, my sister, and I are in the kitchen…waiting.
There is a crusty loaf of homemade bread on the counter, and my mother stands in front of the stove, stirring flour in a cast-iron skillet. Four hungry faces watch her every move. Flour and water—it’s all she has. And this crusty loaf of bread. Soon, the acrid smell of scorched flour permeates the kitchen, and she adds water, making a pasty gravy that will bind pieces of bread to our stomachs, gluing down the hunger pangs.
I still remember the thick roll of that meal on my tongue—how the taste of burnt flour and disappointment clung to the air around me. My hunger was not satisfied when the bread was gone.
This would become my very first memory—my beginning. 
Would you join me over at The High Calling for the rest of the story? I’m grateful to be sharing over there today.

Image by Marty Hadding. Used with permission. Sourced via Flickr.


  1. Pam says

    This is simply gorgeous, Laura. I think I knew that about the meaning of Bethlehem, but forgot. Another thing in the life our Lord on earth that holds such deep significance and planning of the Father. He is our bread. Bread of life, healing, light… I will meditate on this tonight. I’ve always loved that Christmas extends through the Epiphany… time to savor. Thanks, Laura.

    I’m sorry your childhood holds so much deprivation… but so grateful for all God is blessing you with now. ~ Pam, apples of gold,

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