Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World (Jacob the Baker Series) by Noah benShea
Authors: Noah benShea
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ONE MAN TRAVELING OPPOSITE THE FLOW IS MORE CLEARLY NOTICED THAN ALL WHO TRAVEL TOGETHER
I t was still dark when Jacob woke. He shut his eyes, pulled the covers over his head, and thanked God for returning his soul.
It was cold in his room, and the cold interfered with his ability to focus on his prayers. He knew he was saying them quickly. He prayed for understanding.
He turned on the small heater in his bathroom and dressed in front of it. The warmth soothed the back of his legs.
In the kitchen, he sliced a piece of hard cheese and dark bread. He ate slowly while the tea water boiled. When the tea was ready, Jacob clenched a cube of sugar between his teeth andrelished in the hot tea, sliding slowly past the sweetness.
“Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a taste of life in the world to come.”
The moon was still high as he walked to the bakery. His boots crunched the snow, and the sound traveled back to his youth. He felt a great truth between the silver moon, the white snow, and the black night.
The shutters on most of the homes remained closed, their worlds asleep. He remembered a time when an old man would rap on the shutters and call people to morning prayers.
The old man was gone. He wondered what people would do if he started banging on their shutters.
He hurried on.
Behind the bakery, pigeons pecked circles in the hard ground, finishing the crumbs from yesterday’s bread.
Jacob stared at the tracks the birds left in the shallow pockets of snow. The three-fingered pattern radiating out of a single source … the patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob … the past, the present, and the future … “Yes,” thought Jacob, “it fits. It all fits.”
The pigeons rose and settled on the rain gutters.
Jacob stood by himself, staring up at the stars between the buildings that pressed in on him.
He looked at his hands as he unlocked the rear door of the factory. Then he stepped from the night into the reassuring blackness of the bakery. “It is like pulling a prayer shawl over my head,” he thought. “This darkness is my own.”
He was stiff. Bending to fire the oven was an effort. From his knees, he hypnotically watched the pilot light and sensed its affirmation. He thought of the “eternal light” and patience. He prayed for such patience.
This was the oldest bakery in his community, and, though much had changed, the original oven remained. The bread it baked rode ’round and ’round on a ferris wheel of shelves. Jacob paused and laid his cheek on the warming bricks outside the old oven.
Soon the oven would reach temperature. Soon the other bakers would arrive. They could sleep later in the morning, see their children before they left for school. Jacob lived alone.
He was not lonely. He was cut from life but not removed.
He turned on the mixer and began to work the first dough. His eyes followed the spiral metalarm on its endless roll. Its pattern confirmed a truth he saw everywhere.
Gradually, he added the warm water, careful not to make the dough too stiff or too wet. Moderation. Balance. Taking measure of what he was doing.
Jacob the baker understood this.
Now there was time. His time. A little time. The dough needed to rise. The oven’s heat curled through the bakery.
Jacob took a thick flat pencil from his back pocket and began to write. But, it really wasn’t Jacob writing.
Jacob was a reed, and the breath of God blew through Jacob, made music of him.
In this way, was Jacob’s voice.
Jacob finished just as the other bakers arrived. He folded the little pieces of paper with his scratchings and shoved them under the scale on the dough bench. At the end of the day, he would collect his thoughts and add them to the stacks at home. Now, he would make bread.
Cold air and light broke in through the back door. The bakery filled with activity. Men were coming and going with large silver pans of braided egg loaves, frosting white cakes with castles and pride, building biscuits,
I t was still dark when Jacob woke. He shut his eyes, pulled the covers over his head, and thanked God for returning his soul.
It was cold in his room, and the cold interfered with his ability to focus on his prayers. He knew he was saying them quickly. He prayed for understanding.
He turned on the small heater in his bathroom and dressed in front of it. The warmth soothed the back of his legs.
In the kitchen, he sliced a piece of hard cheese and dark bread. He ate slowly while the tea water boiled. When the tea was ready, Jacob clenched a cube of sugar between his teeth andrelished in the hot tea, sliding slowly past the sweetness.
“Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a taste of life in the world to come.”
The moon was still high as he walked to the bakery. His boots crunched the snow, and the sound traveled back to his youth. He felt a great truth between the silver moon, the white snow, and the black night.
The shutters on most of the homes remained closed, their worlds asleep. He remembered a time when an old man would rap on the shutters and call people to morning prayers.
The old man was gone. He wondered what people would do if he started banging on their shutters.
He hurried on.
Behind the bakery, pigeons pecked circles in the hard ground, finishing the crumbs from yesterday’s bread.
Jacob stared at the tracks the birds left in the shallow pockets of snow. The three-fingered pattern radiating out of a single source … the patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob … the past, the present, and the future … “Yes,” thought Jacob, “it fits. It all fits.”
The pigeons rose and settled on the rain gutters.
Jacob stood by himself, staring up at the stars between the buildings that pressed in on him.
He looked at his hands as he unlocked the rear door of the factory. Then he stepped from the night into the reassuring blackness of the bakery. “It is like pulling a prayer shawl over my head,” he thought. “This darkness is my own.”
He was stiff. Bending to fire the oven was an effort. From his knees, he hypnotically watched the pilot light and sensed its affirmation. He thought of the “eternal light” and patience. He prayed for such patience.
This was the oldest bakery in his community, and, though much had changed, the original oven remained. The bread it baked rode ’round and ’round on a ferris wheel of shelves. Jacob paused and laid his cheek on the warming bricks outside the old oven.
Soon the oven would reach temperature. Soon the other bakers would arrive. They could sleep later in the morning, see their children before they left for school. Jacob lived alone.
He was not lonely. He was cut from life but not removed.
He turned on the mixer and began to work the first dough. His eyes followed the spiral metalarm on its endless roll. Its pattern confirmed a truth he saw everywhere.
Gradually, he added the warm water, careful not to make the dough too stiff or too wet. Moderation. Balance. Taking measure of what he was doing.
Jacob the baker understood this.
Now there was time. His time. A little time. The dough needed to rise. The oven’s heat curled through the bakery.
Jacob took a thick flat pencil from his back pocket and began to write. But, it really wasn’t Jacob writing.
Jacob was a reed, and the breath of God blew through Jacob, made music of him.
In this way, was Jacob’s voice.
Jacob finished just as the other bakers arrived. He folded the little pieces of paper with his scratchings and shoved them under the scale on the dough bench. At the end of the day, he would collect his thoughts and add them to the stacks at home. Now, he would make bread.
Cold air and light broke in through the back door. The bakery filled with activity. Men were coming and going with large silver pans of braided egg loaves, frosting white cakes with castles and pride, building biscuits,
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