As I tie on the apron, a weighty rush comes over me, as if I am suiting up armor.

We have to fight to feast on the Bread.

Bread making has become a recent part of my life, a symbolic practice and picture of what the past two years have been for me . . . a slow kneading of the Maker’s Hands, working His ways into my soul, transforming me from my nothingness into what He desires.

The 12 to 18 hours of slow-rising dough, the yeast little-by-little permeating the entire lump as it rises unnoticed in the night, tucked in the corner on the countertop, hidden under a tea towel.

My first go-round I burned my forearm on the dutch oven, realizing that the making of good things often comes with burns.

Recently, we have learned to light candles on the table at dinnertime, in order to recalibrate our hearts together, focusing on what is true and symbolizing what is real : “God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all” (1 John 1:5). “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).

For our survival and for our joy, it makes something that is so routine, like sitting at the table to eat, feel sacred and holy. For indeed, feasting will be part of Forever.

We listen to one designated person read aloud – and sometimes we rehearse together – truths of Scripture in order to backdrop our minds, to take captive our thoughts from the day, to script our prayers, to calm some fears, and to quiet the noise of the world.

Every few days I step out on the porch and pour water over our plants – seeking to pour life – and I try to think of what this all really adds up to . . . all of the small, hidden from the outside, showing up to the mundane moments (though not always with a happy heart). But God is patiently working His ways, transfiguring my heart’s posture and my mind’s perspective.

Sometimes we have to fight to feast on the Bread of Life, especially in a world that would lull us into lethargy and dupe us to believe that we will be okay to simply gnaw on the illusion of it’s fullness.

Sometimes the fight against the darkness looks like forcing pause on life’s frenzy and intentionally looking long at the Light with our loved ones around the table.

Sometimes small symbols of life around us, like plants on the porch, remind us that God will one day restore and reinstitute Eden.

We are surrounded by arrows, aren’t we? Small pointers to present and future realities.

I water the autumn mum – sprinkled with the promise of bronze blooms – along with the ceramic cylinder that still contains a few white remnants of summer. By the front door, the symmetrical pots of lilies blossom peace, surprising me with the unexpected abundance and keeping in step with my heart.