An inexplicable currency

I have a full container of hummus in the fridge. I’m not one to take a spoon and eat it like oatmeal, so this evening I decided to make some pita to go with it:

Yes Ma’am. Beautiful, rustic pita bread.

This isn’t my pita bread, but mine did turn out just like this photo, and really saved me the effort of buying a camera and taking artistic shots of my bread. I found the recipe at Simply Scratch. I love her recipes, because they come with sublime PHOTO INSTRUCTIONS. I love it. I keep wondering why I always am going back to her site for more recipes, and that is why.

Pita bread is funny.

After you allow it to raise, you roll it into a log and cut it into 8 equal pieces. The most crucial part is that you roll each piece into a ball; if you don’t, the pita will not develop the air necessary for the ‘pocket’ part:

Isn’t it neat? They puff up like crazy. You preheat the oven at 500 degrees, and after you roll out your little pita patty you place it on a cooling rack and pop into into the furnace. 5 minutes later, you have your very own magical pita pocket. Immediately after you take it from the oven, you have to cover it with a damp cloth to cool. That’s the part that keeps it soft.

So in the midst of all this pita building, as I’m taking the 6th or 7th one out, I look down and see a dash of crimson on my beautiful, fresh pita. I wonder for very short while before I remember I had taken off my band-aid. I realize the finger I had nipped while making dinner is dripping blood ALL OVER MY PITA. Gah. I go to the bathroom, rinse my hand, apply another bandage, and set out to clean my poor pita.

At this point I’m a little unsure. I pick up the bread and start wiping the blood of with a wet washcloth. It starts coming off fairly easily, and I’m beginning to feel a bit more optimistic about the whole thing. But the motion of my hand slowly comes to a stop, and I noticed how bright and deep the hue of red that had seeped into the pita, and I just couldn’t. I tore it in half, and threw the sullied part away. It was all too much.

It was my life that I was scrubbing out of that bread, and I just couldn’t look at it any more. Not that I’m squimish. It brought me back to the cross, where Christ shed his life to cover my sins. It was ironic that I had spilt my blood on bread. Blood and the Body. Every time I nick or cut myself, I’m always captivated by the vibrancy of what spills out. Life. And I’m always reminded that that is what Christ shed for me.

I finished my Pita with the reminder in my heart of what had been done on my behalf, of how I was purchased. The inexplicable currency of my freedom.

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