The first person who taught me eucharistic theology was my Lutheran grandmother. Although I have no memories of her ever uttering the words “eucharistic” or “theology,” she taught me in the way that the best teachers do: by being a living example. Grandma’s house usually smelled like freshly baked bread. Her counter was often dusted…
The smell of bread baking wafts, stills her light as she enters bouncing, screen door clanging. Show me, Grandma. I want to know. For the next batch, she is held firm between warm embrace and floured dough upon tan table. She’s stunned by the flowing union of grandma’s…
“NO! I HATE this part of the bread! I won’t eat it!” My daughter had just realized that her peanut butter and honey toast was made with an “all-crust” heel piece. To a five-year-old who has never known true crisis, this realization is nothing short of devastating—on par with candy-less valentines and cake batter-scented (but NOT flavored)…
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