Emphasis Preaching Journal

When I was growing up, my mother made bread once a week. Bread day was a day of great expectation. From the time the mixing bowl appeared on the counter until the aroma of fresh bread wafted through the house, I kept coming round for a taste. But when I tried to pinch off a bit of dough, my mother would playfully slap my fingers with the admonition that raw dough would make me sick. When the freshly baked loaves were slipped, steaming from their pans, I ran to get a knife to hack off a piece. Again, I was rebuffed. "They are too hot.