August 5, Ordinary 18B (John 6:24-35)
I have an enduring memory of bread I ate when I was four. Jesus' bread also abides.
When I was a prekindergartner, my grandmother would take me regularly to one of the ethnic enclaves in Baltimore for some shopping. The highlight for me was always a stop at a Polish-Jewish bakery—not for the desserts, as luscious as they must have been and as tempting to four-year-old me, but for something far more inviting: a particular kind of bread.
It might have been the aroma; it might have been the sound it made when it was thumped or the odd little paper stamp affixed to its side or the touch of my grandmother’s hand in mine while we stood in line. Probably it was all of these things. One specific loaf: dark and round and pleasingly firm and crusty on the outside, dense and with just the right holey-ness inside. It squished pleasingly between my fingers and then bounced right back into position. And the taste of it and the feel of it against my teeth were sensations for which I had no words then or now. Although I’ve sometimes looked for it when out and about, I’ve never been able to find that precise kind of bread. The reality of that bread, and of that set of experiences, abides.
Memory goes a long way toward making us who we are. It reminds of our roots, of who has shaped us, of the events and people who have helped to form our values and our beliefs and our ability to trust and to love. It may even, with a little imagination, point us to our futures. And the strongest of memories, triggered by the senses, tend to endure. They stay with us throughout our lives, the best of them as comfort.
