Biscuits

She’s a minister day in and day out.
And double time on Sundays and youth retreats.
But she’s taking a sabbatical.
Four precious weeks giving focus to time and space,
recharging the batteries of her body and soul.
She has set social media aside.
It hasn’t been hard.
She sits at her table.
Reading prayers. Writing prayers. Praying prayers.
And she’s baking biscuits
for the first time ever.
Floury. Sticky. Doughy.
Rising golden in the warm oven.
In the fullness of time, as winter evening fades,
She takes them out
and serves them flaky and hot.
The butter melting down the sides and leaving pools on the plate.
Jam, Honey, Gravy.
There is no wrong answer.
Her daughter loves them and asks she make them again and again,
any teenage angst dismantled and self-doubt embraced by soft layers of bread.
She is a minister and is remembering herself.
She never would have guessed that making biscuits was the way home.