Hmm …About My Bread Hands

Running across campus through a lumpy terrain of rocks and weeds, I stopped abruptly. That is, my shoes did, but my mind kept on going.  There I was at a large, red brick building, surrounded by nicely mowed green grass.  

“Where is my new friend?”  I said aloud.  Then a huge door crashed open. And there she was … my long-time acquaintance of almost one semester. 

Muttering to herself, she ran over and patted my back. “So sorry I’m late.  It’s just that I can’t find the book I need for class. You would think the college bookstore would have stocked more.”

Reaching into my bookbag, I pulled out the coveted paperback.  “Catch! You can have mine,” I said, playfully throwing it to her.  As she caught it, she came closer, looking carefully at my open hand.  “Hmm… what do we have here?”

She pulled my hand over, tracing countless crisscrossed lines that etched deep in it. “Oh, why, this is the most amazing hand I’ve ever seen!”

“What?”

“Let me see the other one,” she insisted. Grabbing my left hand, then my right, breathless as she compared every line.  Then exclaimed, "These palms are the most incredible I’ve ever seen … you have such interesting 'bread hands!'” I quickly pulled my hands away and changed the subject.

But I knew I would always remember what she said. Her words seared the truth of something I did not understand. 

Many months passed.  Often thinking about what she said about “this condition.” Now I frequently focused on the design on my hands, an artistry of many lines stretched and interlaced. The zig and zags embellished as in an artist's brush.  Yes, these hands were realizing the accomplishments of all my days witnessed in open palms.

Bread hands. 

And, strangely, I loved to bake bread.

Hmm… making bread, well, let’s see.  First, I gathered the most basic ingredients: sifted flour, water, and perhaps a pinch of salt and an extra pinch of sugar added to the moistened yeast. Then spooned it all together into an amorphous mess.  I glanced at my etched hands, furrows now floured white, as they gently eased the dough back and forth and sideways to form into a mound that is stretched and folded into a sturdy, yet soft ball. Kneading is finished. Now to set the dough in a warm place to rise.   

Sticky dough covers my hands, filling in each crease in this bread-making effort.        

Grasping my hands tightly, then releasing, this etching is evident and visible.  And I am proud. Proud of every line and crisscross, furrow and crack that I see. Satisfied with the many activities they endeavored and got me through. From the tough times to the glorious … the risen bloom of life itself.

A wisp of ready dough swirls, gently nudging. Easing it carefully into the oven, the browning of the crust urges a piece slathered with butter.

I wait.  Chuckling, I glanced at the creased, zig-zag palms that fashioned it. And soon it will be baking that is pleasing to the eye and satisfying to my huge appetite.

So many thoughts of days past have filled my memory …  so grateful that my friend noticed my bread hands.  So grateful I can continue to use them.

There are heartfelt tributes to these to bread hands, such as …embracing small babies, nurturing the best life for them, joining hands with those of young children slathering finger paints this way and that, holding creative hands tight with crayons, pencil, and watercolor brushes, digging deep into fertile dirt to plant tomatoes, and blessing grown children on their way as they went off and became.

And my favorite… taking this bread-making tradition around the table with family, as we lavish sweet butter on crusty, thick slices.

“and that’s how I live it.”