I’m amazing at being impatient. It runs in my family—and humanity—so I have to practice. I have to practice waiting and pausing and extending kindness in the frustration that tags along. 

In the last few years, baking bread has become one of my patience practices. I discovered my desperate need when I constantly undercooked things—cookies and cakes and brownies and sometimes chicken. My pre-baking days were a dangerous time to be my friend, or maybe it kept things exciting. Jury’s still out.

Enter flour, salt, yeast, and water.

Early on, I served my family and friends bricks disguised as bread—a tangible representation of my impatience. Most recipes say to let dough sit until doubled in size for about 1-2 hours. But who has time to let something sit for two hours? Often, I gave my dough 60 minutes and not a moment longer. 

Over time, I failed and learned and tried again. One day, the process became therapeutic—mixing and kneading and proofing and pausing. Bread became less about reaching the end and more about the process of creating something delicious. 

And, friend, delicious bread takes time—more time than my undercooked self knew. 

Somewhere around week four of this coronavirus quarantine, I attempted sourdough—the longest process ever. I figured this was the perfect time to try and fail and try again. And I decided I needed another patience practice, because the virus has paused so much.

Stuck in the waiting, my impatience is showing up more and more. Most days I wake up antsy and ready to move to Chicago, even though Illinois leaders shut down the state until the end of May. This desire to move isn’t bad, but in my impatience, I try to take control. I grab what never belonged to me and demand that my plan, my timing, my will be done. 

And so in the middle of all this impatience, I pulled out a bowl and mixed flour and water together and put the dough in the corner to sit. The next day, I repeated the process. 

And the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 

A bit of starter, some flour, a few ounces of water.

At first, the sourdough starter smelled like the very worst boy’s dorm—fermentation at its finest. Over time, though, it changed, and today, the starter smells sweet and yeasty and delicious. 

After almost two weeks of feeding and cultivating my starter, I worked up the courage to bake a loaf. In case you wondered, from start to finish, sourdough loaves take about 48 hours plus two weeks to develop the starter. 

My most ambitious patience practice yet. 

This loaf required setting timer after timer, mixing and folding and putting the dough in the corner to rise time and time again. The process didn’t take much effort, but it took more time and attention than I’d ever given a single loaf of bread before. 

And I think this is beautiful

By Sunday afternoon, I served my family a crunchy, chewy loaf of sourdough bread that exploded with flavor and called me back for one more slice, one more excuse to eat another bite. 

Here’s the thing about bread—it’s a process, and in that process, flavor builds. Shortcuts can ruin it or result in a slice of something that tastes more like air than bread. As dough sits and proofs, richness grows, but this can’t happen this unless we are patient, unless I am patient. 

And to me, that is the truth of this season. Waiting and waiting and waiting again. 

In the waiting, richness builds, and flavor grows. 
The process develops beauty and depth that I couldn’t produce on my own. 

And the waiting will not be forever. Soon, life will embrace a new normal. We will go back to work and restaurants and movie theaters. We’ll complain about being busy and disconnected. 

But for now, I will practice patience and gratitude for the richness of the waiting. 

The post On Patience Practices and Baking Bread appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I have seen this tree a thousand times since I moved into my house a year ago. Day after day after day I drive by this tree. In the fall, I’m sure I saw its many leaves change from green to gold to red to orange. I’m sure I saw it bloom this spring, its blossoms swaying in the wind. I’m sure I’ve seen it every day.

Today was the first day I noticed this tree.

Today was the first day I noticed the green of its leaves, the kind of green from a Crayola factory. Today was the first day I noticed the way it bends and twists and curves, the way it stretches so high in the sky. Today was the first day I noticed it through the window panes of my front porch.

A million tiny, beautiful gifts cascade from the Father to my life. They come in the form of trees, of clear blue skies, of coffee dates and dinner dates and movie nights with friends. A million tiny, beautiful gifts cascade, and I notice very few.

Instead of gratitude, my heart constantly seems to be penetrated by a subtle yet powerful darkness—discontent, wanting more. Always discontent. Always wanting more. This darkness looks like comparison, like discouragement, like seeking and seeking and seeking. Rushing and rushing and rushing. What’s new? What’s next? What’s better? Anything is better than this.

And while I don’t believe I am alone in the struggle, I think those who wrestle with this kind of discontentment fail to talk about the deep darkness that comes with a heart that always seeks more, seeks the new, the next, the better.

It seems it is a struggle against God himself, against the place and the purpose and the plans he has set me in. It seems it is a struggle against his goodness and his faithfulness, a struggle against his love and his grace. It seems it is a struggle against the good and beautiful and perfect things he has placed in my life day after day after day after day.

Like the air I breathe in and out. Like the roof over my head. Like the warmth of my bed.

Like this tree that bends and twists and curves.

In recent weeks, I began to peel back the layers of my discontented soul and heard a small whisper from the Lord, a still small voice that begged me to step an inch closer to the Father’s heart.

Pause. Notice. Be grateful.

It was a call to push out the darkness, to push out the discontentment. It was a call to enter into thankfulness, to dependence, to joy.

So I’ve created a new habit. Every morning, I find my way to the front porch. Some days I am wide awake. Other days I fight off sleep with every step. In the stillness of my peaceful town, I pause and notice, and as I notice, I make a list of ten things I am grateful for. And each evening after I climb into bed, I pause and notice, and as I notice, I make a list of ten things I am grateful for. Every morning, every evening, a list of ten things.

After a little while of this, I began to notice new things. I noticed a million tiny, beautiful gifts that daily wash over my life. I noticed the sound of birds outside. I noticed the smell of the early-morning air. I noticed laughter shared with friends.

I noticed my tree.

And my heart that was so detached from the gifts of the Father began to beat a bit differently. The darkness has begun to run because there is little place for discontentment when there is gratitude. There is little place for comparison when there is joy. And inch by inch, I feel as if this gratitude takes my hand and walks me a step closer to the heart of Jesus.

My list of ten things each morning and ten things each evening are small steps. They are small stakes in the ground that declare the work of the Father. They draw attention to the details he is orchestrating, to the gifts he has given.

They point out the things I have passed by a thousand times and never once noticed. They point out only a few of the million tiny, beautiful gifts that cascade from the Father. And they beckon my heart to the heart of the Father. They call my soul to rest and rejoice, to say thank you, to point out the beauty of this incredible life I have been given.

And they point out trees, trees that bend and curve and twist. Those big and beautiful trees.

The post Pause. Notice. appeared first on Kate Berkey.