The Saturday Tradition
Six months after the bakery’s official relaunch as a community sanctuary, the rhythm of my life had settled into something rich, warm, and deeply sustaining.
My Sundays still belonged to Grace Community Church. My sermons were still arguably too long—Wade made sure to remind me of that every chance he got—but my congregation noticed a distinct shift in my tone. I spent less time talking about abstract theological doctrines and more time talking about grace, forgiveness, and the sacred act of breaking bread together. People didn’t just listen on Sunday mornings anymore; they showed up on Tuesday nights, sleeves rolled up, carrying bowls of soup and laughing across the communal tables.
Every Saturday morning without fail, my routine remained the same.
I woke up at 5:00 AM, brewed my coffee, slipped my flea-market wedding band onto my finger, and walked down the quiet, dew-kissed main street to the bakery long before the morning rush began.
Denise would already be at the massive wooden prep table, her hands deep in dough, flour smudged across her cheek. Wade would be in the tiny back office, clicking away on his laptop, reviewing supply chain costs and managing the community outreach grants Margaret had quietly funded through her estate.
I would unlock the front door, flip the sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and walk over to the small shrine we had built on the mantelpiece near the front window.
There, resting on a polished oak shelf beneath Margaret’s favorite black-and-white photograph, was a small crystal vase. Every Saturday, I brought fresh wildflowers picked from the parsonage garden—daisies in the spring, wild asters in the summer, golden chrysanthemums in the fall.
I arranged the flowers carefully, brushed a speck of dust from the wooden frame, and whispered a quiet “Good morning, my love.”
