My hands roll dough across the counter. I’m conquering one of my greatest fears…
Cinnamon rolls from scratch
How can I be so intimidated by yeast and flour, sugar and butter, the thick, stretchy dough that begins to lengthen and take form beneath my hands?
I realize, slowly, that it’s not about the dough at all. It’s about what I believe the outcome will say about me.
There’s some part of me that believes that my worth is somehow tied to my ability to make decent cinnamon rolls. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it’s only one in a string of many such expectations I carry.
I must be able to decorate my house.
I must be able to accessorize.
I must be able to make coherent small talk.
You can write your own list.
But what it all comes down to is believing this: You’re only as good as what you can produce.
And that, my friends, is a sure way to drive yourself crazy.
I slap the dough with my bare hands, roll it across more flour. It resists and I don’t blame it.
If my worth is not from what I produce then where does it come from?
I realize slowly as the flour shifts that my worth is not something I can make. It’s not cinnamon rolls. Or a tidy house. Or the perfect outfit.
It’s a gift. Offered with outstretched hands by the One who made me.
I don’t produce my worth.
I receive it.
And then, in joy and love, I live it out…maybe even sometimes by making cinnamon rolls.
The dough yields at last. I cut it into circles, load it into pans, bake it into goodness.
When I finally take a bite I taste cinnamon, butter, sugar.
And grace.
Yes, an extra sprinkling of grace.
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