I keep the Kingdom of God in a small mason jar on a shelf
in the refrigerator door. When I am in need of the Kingdom,
I look for it nestled somewhere between the capers and the chutneys,
the mustard and the maple syrup. A series of scratched out dates
on the lid indicates how long ago I last refilled the jar and
I have tucked a note inside to remind me of conversion,
that one packet equals two and a quarter teaspoons.
A woman’s place is in the kitchen, with bread dough under her nails,
the scent of the Kingdom permeating her clothes, her home,
and her life, but a woman’s place is also in the world, for in Christ
there is neither male nor female, slave nor free, and there is so much
work to be done, so we sacrifice our daily bread for other tasks,
like the fulfillment of the courtroom or the laboratory if we are lucky
and the security of a paycheck if we are not.
There is also glory to be had in curries and stir-fries and all manner
of yeast-less things. I keep wild, arborio, basmati, and jasmine rice
in other jars. Farro and polenta, too. By no means every plant bearing seed
or tree bearing fruit, but a wide variety of grains and seeds fill my pantry
and I am blessed with peaches, plums, and pineapple year round.
Daily bread would be a burden, both to bake and to eat each day
and therefore have to forgo so many other good and Godly things.
Yet my home would not be complete
without that jar of the Kingdom,
waiting patiently in the dark cold,
to bring new life to dead wheat,
to make large what is small
and in due time,
to fill us and sustain us,
whenever I am willing
to plan ahead,