Every Saturday my sister, Ann Marie, pulls out her trusty workhorse Bosch, fifteen pounds of flour, yeast, salt and a few other basics that reside in her well stocked pantry. She’ll mix these ingredients while she’s talking to you, without even having to think or look at a recipe card. If she didn’t have to measure, she could do it with her eyes closed.
Sunday mornings the Ashby boys run to her house next door and get three of her loaves. Two for the sacrament and one for their family. They’ll head over to the church house before the congregation arrives. There they will lay the sliced bread on a tray. They will take spring water we’ve collected from the artesian well and pour it into pitchers. These they will place on the Sacrament table at the front of our little neighborhood chapel. They’ll set empty trays in front of them like shiny metal soldiers, their shoulders to the square. When everything is arranged correctly, they will cover all of this with a soft white cotton cloth, a shroud over the tokens of our Savior and Redeemer. Next time you’re in Sacrament Meeting at Church look at the table, covered in white, and imagine the body of our Lord underneath.
I sit in our usual spot with my husband and my sisters. I watch the young boys who pass through our driveway daily on their way to school as they line up in their crisp white shirts and combed hair. They surround the table and break my sister’s bread. They carry it to us with reverence. We offer it to each other. It’s a quiet, introspective, lovely ordinance that is central in my week and very personal. It’s how I speak to God; my most basic and most profound personal prayer.
I am always happy when I partake of the holy symbol of our Lord’s body and there is a soft, substantial absolutely delicious texture in my mouth, indicating that my sister in in town. She is grace and generosity and loyalty. I miss her when she’s gone. The whole ward does.
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| my sister, Ann Marie Mullen |
Four of the five girls in our family live in our tiny neck of the woods tucked against the foothills of the Wasatch mountains. The altitude does not work well with our sister Sue’s lungs, or she might be here as well. I consider it the most beautiful tender mercy that in our waning years we are able to walk to each other’s houses on any casual evening. We pop over to see if this dress one of us has bought is worth keeping. We hop into each other’s cars to run errands. We water each other’s plants when we’re out of town, and most days we share at least one meal together.
BTW,” a text will say “I have a pot of beans simmering for dinner if you want any.”
We know each other’s strengths: Libby grills the chicken wings, Sherry makes the fudge, I simmer the soup and Ann Marie bakes the bread. Sue sews the aprons. We want for little.
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| 5 Sisters |
But the sweetest to me is the opportunity to worship together, as we did when we were kids, singing the hymns of our youth side by side.
Last November, for my Christmas concerts, Ann Marie baked 160 loaves of bread in three days. We sell little care packages and give the money to the orphan children in Africa, whom we have come to love. Many young parentless children attend school all year long from the funds we raise. My audiences are the most caring, selfless people you will ever meet. They also know my sister’s bread. Worth every penny.
I also make bread, though its different from my sisters. Mine is artisan bread baked in heavy hot lidded pots, giving it a crunchy crust that crumbles when you bite into it. It’s not the same, but it’s not bad. We have it every Sunday with family dinner, always hot from the oven and most often sampled at the kitchen island while I’m cutting it, so hot that the butter sinks into its softness before it reaches the lips. My bread is earthy and crunchy and the crust looks like a rugged mountain range with dark brown peaks, made for Sunday evenings.
But my sister’s bread? It is lovely and dependably golden brown on top, mounded like the top of a coffin, perfectly suited to represent the death and resurrection of our Lord. It's made for Sunday mornings.
Ann Marie is known for her bread. People compliment her over and over, with good reason. She will always reply: “Thank you. It’s my friend Connie’s recipe. And how lucky am I that I get to make bread for Jesus?”
I can almost hear the voice of my Lord, the words being interpreted in my mind as I press my jaws together in my humanness, giving myself to the broken bread, a symbol that we are broken before we are whole:
“Take, eat; this is my body.”
Should He not be delicious to us?
