The Beckham and the Baker

This has not been my favorite week. We've had spectacular fall weather, but that doesn't do you much good when you're confined to the house! Tuesday I came down with the stomach virus that has been picking off our church staff families one by one. Jackson had it Sunday, I had it Tuesday, and Curt had it Thursday. Fun times, y'all. We're slowly getting back to normal. I used a blow dryer on my hair this morning for the first times in six days. Six days of air dried hair! These things shouldn't be!

Yesterday I realized that the only thing left in my pantry was chips, so I took a deep breath and made the world's longest shopping list. Since Curtis wasn't exactly hungry yesterday, I made my favorite meal that he hates - roasted chicken and wild rice soup. (He assured me the smell of it cooking wouldn't bother him. He went to bed when I started cooking anyway.) It was absolutely delicious. Later I decided to try baking bread - totally homemade bread without a bread machine - for the first time in my entire life. It was like a goat ropin', but a couple hours later my house was filled with the most amazing aroma known to man. And when I pulled it from the oven using the new mits that Sunni gave me from Anthropologie, I felt like I was birthing a newborn baby (while wearing a designer hospital gown). I even patted it like you would pat a baby's sweet little diapered buns. It was such a precious little loaf of bread. I immediately sawed into it and ate two pieces with plenty of apple butter. Glory to God. I was so sad that Curtis wasn't awake to praise me, nor my child old enough to rise up and call me blessed. Y'all, let's be real. I wanted my works to bring me praise at the city gate! (Click here if you have no idea where I'm getting this stuff.)

I could absolutely not wait to toast my homemade bread in the morning and have it with tea. I couldn't stop smiling, really. A little while later I heard some rustling and I thought maybe Curt was emerging from his slumber in the guest room. It was not so. What did emerge a minute later was my dog. With something in his mouth. Something that looked a lot like my precious little loaf of bread. And lo, it was.

I mourned for my bread. I mourned for the praise of my husband that I wouldn't hear the next day. I mourned the hours of anticipation and labor put into making that stupid loaf. I mourned because I really wanted to be mad at that big ole dumb dog, but I knew he was just hungry. So I didn't yell at him. I didn't throw anything at him. I just marched out to the car and got his new bag of dog food and fed him his dinner. And that is when I thanked God that 2.5 years ago, 9-month-old Beckham forced me into counseling over my anger issues, right after he tore my Bible to shreds in the living room. Loaf of bread? Gone. Consumed by the dog. Growth? Glory to God. For real, y'all.