Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World (Jacob the Baker Series) by Noah benShea Page B
Authors: Noah benShea
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weren’t there.
Samuel turned to Jacob. “Well, will you do it? Will you let us have some of your ideas for the bread?”
Jacob grinned. “Only arrogance guards what it doesn’t own!”
Samuel nodded to the lady. “He’ll do it.”
The lady returned her focus to Jacob. “Thank you,” she said.
But Jacob had already retreated to the bakery, leaving her appreciation to find peace on the ground where Jacob left his footprints, in the flour dust.
Jacob traced his path to work on the way home. He traveled within. A small, frozen puddleof water, caught by a rock, huddled next to a curb and drew his attention.
“An eternity is any moment opened with patience,” he reminded himself.
Then he raised the tip of his boot and pushed down on the layers of ice. He could feel the pressure of the lady’s request that morning in the bakery.
The ice cracked under the insistence of his boot, sending a map of new patterns across the surface.
He continued home and noted spring was in the air.
Jacob warmed a cup of soup for dinner and finished the heel of his morning bread.
His books of learning surrounded him, their blue binding appearing black in the light.
Small pads of yellow paper, a stack of blank white paper, pencils, and pens crowded a worn wooden desk.
Jacob sat to write but did not. The clean innocence of the empty pages instead invited his imagination on an ancient route, and, on that journey, absent of eternal arguments of logic and reason and individual perspective, Jacob climbed his ladder.
During the night, angels stared down through the stars into Jacob’s world. They watched him sleep. They commented on the way his body folded on the bed. They liked this man. They drew their wings over him and stood guard by his soul.
The next morning, Samuel’s voice flexed with excitement as it again reached into the bakery and begged for Jacob’s attention.
“That lady is back,” shouted Samuel. “Everyone loved your ‘thoughts’ in their bread. But, they want more. They all want more. Will you do it for me?”
Max, the young man with thick muscles, who carried the flour sacks, gave Jacob a gentle elbow in the ribs and winked at him.
“How much will they pay you? Maybe you can make some extra money, eh?” Max raised his voice at the end of his sentence.
“You know, he may be right,” said Samuel. “Are you interested, Jacob?”
“No!” said Jacob with amusement. “Greed only uses expectation to arrive at despair.”
Max was intrigued. “Does that mean you’re going to give them your thoughts for nothing?”
“I will,” said Jacob, touched by Max’s form of caring.
Jacob nodded his consent to Samuel.
“Thank you,” said Samuel, and he meant it. But, from somewhere, in an unarticulated voice, he knew his friend’s life was changing. Forever.
And Samuel was right. Because now, people hurried to the bakery, anxious to ask Jacob how they should live, and what should be said to this child, and how do I struggle with this sadness?
They came in haste and noise and deep concern. They reached out to touch him as he walked down the street.
The secret of Jacob became a whisper, which rode the wind into every ear, and the community embraced Jacob as if he were a long-ignored human treasure suddenly unearthed.
TRUTH, MIRACLES, AND MORE
“
T ell us the truth about life!” someone asked Jacob.
And Jacob responded. “Language is only a lie told about the truth.”
“Can you show us a miracle, Jacob?” they asked.
And he answered. “A miracle is often the willingness to see the common in an uncommon way.”
“How can we have more, Jacob?”
And Jacob answered. “The only way I can take a breath is by releasing my breath. In order to be more, I must be willing to be less.”
THE REASON FOR RELIGION IS NOT REASON
A student, clearly troubled by something Jacob had said, followed him as he left the bakery.
“Jacob, did you say that what is holy has no beginning or
Samuel turned to Jacob. “Well, will you do it? Will you let us have some of your ideas for the bread?”
Jacob grinned. “Only arrogance guards what it doesn’t own!”
Samuel nodded to the lady. “He’ll do it.”
The lady returned her focus to Jacob. “Thank you,” she said.
But Jacob had already retreated to the bakery, leaving her appreciation to find peace on the ground where Jacob left his footprints, in the flour dust.
Jacob traced his path to work on the way home. He traveled within. A small, frozen puddleof water, caught by a rock, huddled next to a curb and drew his attention.
“An eternity is any moment opened with patience,” he reminded himself.
Then he raised the tip of his boot and pushed down on the layers of ice. He could feel the pressure of the lady’s request that morning in the bakery.
The ice cracked under the insistence of his boot, sending a map of new patterns across the surface.
He continued home and noted spring was in the air.
Jacob warmed a cup of soup for dinner and finished the heel of his morning bread.
His books of learning surrounded him, their blue binding appearing black in the light.
Small pads of yellow paper, a stack of blank white paper, pencils, and pens crowded a worn wooden desk.
Jacob sat to write but did not. The clean innocence of the empty pages instead invited his imagination on an ancient route, and, on that journey, absent of eternal arguments of logic and reason and individual perspective, Jacob climbed his ladder.
During the night, angels stared down through the stars into Jacob’s world. They watched him sleep. They commented on the way his body folded on the bed. They liked this man. They drew their wings over him and stood guard by his soul.
The next morning, Samuel’s voice flexed with excitement as it again reached into the bakery and begged for Jacob’s attention.
“That lady is back,” shouted Samuel. “Everyone loved your ‘thoughts’ in their bread. But, they want more. They all want more. Will you do it for me?”
Max, the young man with thick muscles, who carried the flour sacks, gave Jacob a gentle elbow in the ribs and winked at him.
“How much will they pay you? Maybe you can make some extra money, eh?” Max raised his voice at the end of his sentence.
“You know, he may be right,” said Samuel. “Are you interested, Jacob?”
“No!” said Jacob with amusement. “Greed only uses expectation to arrive at despair.”
Max was intrigued. “Does that mean you’re going to give them your thoughts for nothing?”
“I will,” said Jacob, touched by Max’s form of caring.
Jacob nodded his consent to Samuel.
“Thank you,” said Samuel, and he meant it. But, from somewhere, in an unarticulated voice, he knew his friend’s life was changing. Forever.
And Samuel was right. Because now, people hurried to the bakery, anxious to ask Jacob how they should live, and what should be said to this child, and how do I struggle with this sadness?
They came in haste and noise and deep concern. They reached out to touch him as he walked down the street.
The secret of Jacob became a whisper, which rode the wind into every ear, and the community embraced Jacob as if he were a long-ignored human treasure suddenly unearthed.
TRUTH, MIRACLES, AND MORE
“
T ell us the truth about life!” someone asked Jacob.
And Jacob responded. “Language is only a lie told about the truth.”
“Can you show us a miracle, Jacob?” they asked.
And he answered. “A miracle is often the willingness to see the common in an uncommon way.”
“How can we have more, Jacob?”
And Jacob answered. “The only way I can take a breath is by releasing my breath. In order to be more, I must be willing to be less.”
THE REASON FOR RELIGION IS NOT REASON
A student, clearly troubled by something Jacob had said, followed him as he left the bakery.
“Jacob, did you say that what is holy has no beginning or
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