I, the recent college graduate, find joy in making for others. Specifically, food.
When I know there is a chance I can make for, anyone, I jump at the chance.
I scan ravenously yet selectively punchfork, epicurious, and allrecipes for recipes-as of this summer, it has been pie.
There must be something in the process of the making that does the saving. I am creating, I am building. My mind and senses are engaged. I am doing, rather than merely thinking. I am pouring my blessing and desire to love and be loved into this act, this act of meeting of basic needs, this act of worship, this offering, all that I cannot express with words. As I scoop out mostly indiscriminate amounts of shortening and mix it up with the flour, and then the corn starch, and then the water, I find it, miracle of miracles, coalescing. There it is, a token of my affection.
Then I knead, I measure, I cut, I brush with egg, I drizzle with turbinado sugar. I set in the oven and wait as the crust does it work of hardening and the blueberries begin to bubble up and spill over the sides.
I cool it on the windowsill, if I can, and let it sit.
When it is time to eat, I cut it carefully. I anxiously (perhaps this is one component where I need the most saving) await to hear the verdict, believing that my goodness rests on my ability to make a flaky crust or that I must be too sweet or too tart, if the blueberries are.
My offering is imperfect, and stained with insecurity. I want to give, with grace, the way Jesus has given Himself to us. The irony of all this is, He accepts this offering, and cares little for its perfections or lack thereof. His grace makes this creating and offering possible.
And, at the Wedding Feast in kingdom to come, I hope that there is pie, and lots of it, berries dripping down our chins.