Made with Love

When I was around ten years old, my mom decided that we would observe the tradition of baking bread and bringing it to church on Easter to be blessed by the priest. We measured, mixed, and kneaded. Stolen pinches of dough made their way into my mouth. “The dough will rise in your stomach,” warned my mom. The image of a grotesquely distended abdomen formed in my mind and nearly curbed my sneaky snacking. Flour covered every surface – including us. Cleaning and card games kept us busy as the dough, and my excitement rose. All the while I kept a close eye on the rising mound and on my stomach too. The heated, yeasty air was peppered with my dad’s profane outbursts as a hockey game droned from the TV in the next room.

Finally, we could sink our hands into the warm dough. Our inexperienced fingers formed lumpy, beautiful loaves. Then the real fun began. With the leftover dough, we made teddy bears for the twins – big puffy bellies and black raisin eyes. For me, a bread cat which turned out more like a fetal elephant. And for my little brother, a lady, complete with breasts that rose larger than her head. I can still hear my mom’s laughter.

While the bread cooled, we searched for something special to put it in. My mom spied it first. A bright yellow ice-cream pail among a stack of translucent white ones. Surely, nobody else would have such a lovely vessel. We filled it with green, plastic Easter grass and placed our loaves on top. We did not include the bread breasts. We stood and admired our work.

On Easter Sunday, I strutted into the tiny church with my head held high. My mom placed our masterpiece on the front pew with the other offerings. We sat a few pews back, and even though I craned my neck, I was unable to admire our creation amongst the others. When it was finally time to stand, I rose with pride and let my gaze settle on the front pew. I gasped, then sagged. Purple and green ribbons adorned the handles of large wicker baskets lined up across the pew. Mounds of braided bread and hot-cross buns peeked out from under embroidered linens. Flowers and pussy-willows crowned the baked offerings. At the end sat our little yellow bucket, covered in saran wrap and suddenly pathetic. Embarrassed disappointment chased away my joy.

For years that image stuck with me. It whispered to me, lied to me, told me I was worth less than others. I was that little yellow bucket. Jealousy and self-pity lurked under my skin. Forty years later I finally see the little yellow bucket for what it was and is. Unique and made with love. I am that little yellow bucket. Forever forgiven because my heavenly father died on a cross for me. Filled with hope because He rose again three days later.