crispy crusts and melted butter

sleeping with bread

The crust of French bread – so deliciously crispy – is completely foreign when compared to the soft warmth inside. People can be like that too. While all appearances from the outside show a cohesive and firm resolve, the center is tender and vulnerable. The butter of experience soaks into the pores of the innermost being.

From the outside, I am the least like myself. The way circumstances lead me to act is often contrary to my basic nature. Parenting is a good example of this. Over the last week, I have had several whiny children. Mild sickness tends to bring that aspect forth. The firm and decisive crust I exhibit when faced with the tantrums of a three or five year old does not come naturally to me. I am basically non-confrontational. I look at all sides of a coin and understand the motivations behind certain unacceptable behaviors. If I weren’t in the role of disciplinarian, I would likely reach out and be a shoulder to cry upon. As it stands, I know I must be firm, and somehow, God grants me the strength to do it. Sometimes, I choose not to rely on that strength, and I come to regret it. Sometimes, I resort to using the strength of anger to fuel my discipline, and that, while it reflects a side of who I am, is not who I want to be.

Perhaps the times I feel most myself, then, are pretty evident. When the discipline is over, when the crying has stopped, my children come to me for comfort. It is in those quiet teaching moments that I touch base with the doughy interior - that I soak up their love, their cares, their insecurities, and reciprocate with warm, gooey goodness. It is in the seconds of explaining the whys that I become most truly myself. Touch – it’s who I am, who God made me to be.