Every time I make bread the regret again washes over me in familiar waves. The recipe I use is one taken from a church cookbook with the name of the woman who submitted it listed below. Her bread fairly floated to the ceiling if you didn't anchor it down with lots of butter. She was to become my mentor as, over a period of several months, I learned to successfully work with yeast.

I moved to another state and only saw her once more before she died suddenly. That one time rises to haunt me just as the bread does that I make from her recipe. My behavior to her that time stemmed from so petty a reason I have never told anyone but God.

Revisiting my former home, I was warmly greeting and hugging all my church friends I hadn't seen for years. Edith called a happy, surprised greeting to me. I looked at her, cooly spoke and walked on. I'm sure she was puzzled and hurt that I reacted as I did. A year later she and her husband separated and soon after she died. A few months later I was single.

I would not only like to ask her forgiveness; I would like to hold her while our tears mingle in mutual acknowledgment of the pain involved when a wife and husband part.

I could use another bread recipe and never again open that cookbook, but I won't. I know that God has forgiven me, but along with the smudges of flour and shortening on that page there are stains from tears. I have promises to keep, and when I make bread I want to once again reaffirm them.

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