The Touch of the Baker's Hand

I was grocery shopping Saturday night when one of my favorite memories dashed into my mind.  A few weeks after my husband and I had started dating, I was about ready to call it quits.  He was kind, thoughtful, and a charismatic gentleman...but he was oh so serious.  Then one night, we went on a service project date to our church’s local cannery where they were canning flour.  When Greg dropped me off at my apartment, he handed me one of the large cans simply labeled, Flour.  “I thought you’d like a souvenir from our date,” he said while I smiled.  “You should probably open it tonight,” he said.  Something was up.  I opened it later to find a stargazer lily in a little vase of water. Ah--Flower.  His dry wit has filled my life with laughter every day since.

I started thinking about labels—all the food at the store is labeled so we know what we’re getting. I read those labels to my daughter the other night and remembered the time when she opened a bunch of boxes of instant pudding and pulled all of the little white packets out.  I had no idea which packet belonged in which box. Sometimes we label ourselves to help us belong. 

Some labels show, and some don’t.  I think we all worry about one big label being pressed onto us involuntarily, but the thing is, we are all far too complex for just one label.  We all have dozens and dozens of labels—and I bet if they were all visible, most of them would glitter.  (Does The Rainbow Fish book pop into anyone else’s mind when I say that?)  But even though I know I have glittery labels, there are days when I really would rather not have the bipolar label.  It’s an easy one for people to instantly misjudge, and usually it feels like the biggest one.  Sometimes I worry that it covers up the labels that I’d rather have seen—like good, kind, strong, friendly, writer, singer, dreamer…

And then I think about flour.  A simple word on a simple label for a simple substance.  Flour is flour.  Unless—surprise!—it’s flower.  But seriously now, I’m thinking of a plain old five pound bag of flour with a plain old five inch label.  Just because Flour is the one big label pressed onto the bag doesn’t mean that all it’s good for is to sit around and be flour. 

 

Flour is good for millions of things-- if it allows the baker to put it where it needs to go when it needs to go there.  Sometimes it doesn't get to be the first ingredient.  Sometimes it must be sifted.  Sometimes it needs to be mixed with cold, slimy, wet eggs, and it usually needs to endure a lot of heat--but the baker knows what needs to be done. The baker makes the flour into more than it could be alone.  And that reminds me of a beautiful message my parents taught me as a little girl.

 

The Touch of the Master's Hand

by Myra Brooks Welch

 

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

Thought it was scarcely worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile:

"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who’ll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar”; then, “Two!” “Only two?
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
"Three dollars once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three—" But no,

From the room, far back, a gray haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.

"A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
And going and gone!" said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand"
What changed its' worth." Swift came the reply:
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

"And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,
A game—and he travels on.
He’s “going” once and “going” twice,
He is “going” and almost “gone.”

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.