Kneading it Out

My grandmother was a gifted cook.  I say cook and not chef, because she was never formally trained, though she could make a seven course meal out of a chicken, potato and some broccoli.  I admire those people who have the same talent with food as a composer has with musical notes.  They seem to have the same ability to orchestrate with herbs and various vegetables and meats, a symphony of tastes, much as a composer can see the notes in their minds and create a musical master piece.  I'm not that gifted.  I need a recipe to produce a good meal.  Another example of my need for a plan. 

I remember visiting my grandmother on Saturday morning and like clock work, she would be making fresh dough, for the weekly batch of homemade cinnamon rolls she would nibble on and serve to guests during the week.  Often there would be enough dough for a loaf of bread, and some rolls.  Those rolls, hot out of the oven, spread with butter and jelly, would literally melt in your mouth.  I believe she's serving the cinnamon rolls in heaven as we speak, to the delight of the saints and angels.  I loved watching her work and talking to her has she methodically scooped flour, kneaded and rolled the dough.  She was a master.  I, on the other hand, not quite so skilled.  One Saturday, she asked me if I wanted to try, again, to make a loaf of bread.  Sighing, I told her, "Sure.  I'll try, again."  She passed me the utensils and I mirrored her every move, though I was not as graceful at the kneading as she was.  And, again, we were both stumped when out of the oven came her typically perfect, golden brown loaf of bread.  And mine, another door stop.  It was a baffling experience.  But, completely made null and void, once we cut into her loaf. 

I was thinking about her last week.  Her temperament was as sweet as her cinnamon rolls.  Patient. Kind. Giving. She had been through a lot in her life.  Raising four children alone.  Her husband died unexpectedly at a young age.  Life was hard for her, but to look at her, you would never know.  Then I though about her on those Saturday mornings, kneading that dough.  And I thought about me.  How during this experience with my daughter I have run the gamut of emotions from numbness to rage; until recently.  I think I have kneaded my rage out.  I still teeter on fear and worry, sadness and anger but there is also a calmness that was never there, before.  A calmness that, from a logical view, shouldn't be there, but it is.  I have kneaded my anger into calm, and am currently forming my emotions into a more palatable menu.  All of the crying, and yelling and calling to God has begun to inspire in me an understanding that I am truly helpless in all of this; the  anger and rage does nothing but hinder whatever process has to take place. 

So, now I am praying that we are all on more sure footing, as we walk this path.  I am also praying that as each of us kneads out our emotions and experiences, we are all continually blessed along the way with golden servings of contentment and success.