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11/16 18:00 Official Sprint and entry for the Writer's Cramp

I watched her hands, wrinkled, age spotted but still strong. She pushed and pulled the dough, kneading it thoroughly. My mouth watered as I imagined the taste of the yeasty bread she prepared. I watched closely so I could reproduce her efforts in my own kitchen. As she worked, we visited, reminiscing about other days, other meals. The stories made us laugh and sometimes made us tear up.

She used her wrist to push back an errant hair, as she divided the dough and placed it in loaf pans for the final rising. I set the temperature on the oven and handed her a clean towel to cover the dough.

"Are these loaves for our dinner?" I asked. "Or are they going to the soup kitchen."

She smiled and said, "One for us and one for them."

"How many does that make for this week?" I continued.

"Let me think...four on Monday, Tuesday two on Wednesday, two yesterday...so this one will make a bakers' dozen," she replied.

"Gran, I know you want to help, but I think you are going to wear yourself out."

She stilled, pausing in her cleaning. "Honey, I can never do too much. There were so many people who helped us when we needed it. This is how I pay back."

I shook my head, smiling as I took out the butter. Hot bread tastes so much better with lots of fresh softened butter.

I thought about the stories I had grown up with, days of the depression when so many had no job, no food, no home.

My gran was truly a survivor and one who always remembered others. She took the commands of Jesus very seriously and followed them to the letter in any way she could. If only everyone who professed belief did the same, our world would be a much nicer place.