Braiding Grapevines

            I wake in the morning, my bed warm and soft.  The light from the window tells me it is time to press my feet to the cool floor.  I stand and walk through the hallway to my small kitchen.  There on the counter are the beginnings of my work. 

            A dark woven basket filled with dried fruit, wrinkled with only a burst of juice relegated to their middles, the raisins bid to me.  Opposite the basket is my kneading board, made of thick pine, heavy and ready for the heft of bread to be thrown against it over and over.  And there the wire basket empty from yesterday’s work, but ready to be filled with the green eggs laid by my feathered hens while the dew was still on the grass. 

            I stand behind the small bar space.  I run my hand through the flour in the wooden bowl, sifting it gently until my hands are covered in dust.  I smile a glad smile of contentment and thankfulness for this promise of meal.  Wiping my hands gently together, the satin smoothness dropping away, I grab the wire basket, release the latch on the door, and step out on the wood porch of my home.  To the right, a field of short, wide ryegrass glows green in the morning.  The cows low restlessly waiting to be turned out to its juicy delicacy.  They stand near the lake, a murky reflection of life-giving water.  The dirt edge of the lake reveals deep, rich soil turned by the foot of the bovines.  My eyes follow the edge of dark earth around the lake to a hill rising on the other side.  There the grapevine hangs.  My heart lurches with a promise and I silently mark the minutes until I visit the vine, gathering what I need and desire before the day’s end. 

            The tall yellow rooster raises his chest up and out, his startling call sends me scurrying to the egg boxes.  The eggs are resting in the hay, waiting for their miracle of life to pour out into my baking.  They are still warm to my touch making me remember the miracle the Lord provided through a small bird.  Turning back to the house, entering the kitchen, I gently wipe the eggs with a cloth.  Then, begins the process I will repeat again and again.  Today, I make bread of raisins. 

            The dough rises, the kitchen heats and I continue measuring, mixing, rolling, pounding.  This one rises, this one sinks.  This one bakes beautifully and falls from the heat.  This one burns, but this one makes it.  Over and over, a whispered prayer for the work of my hands.

            Soon, I can tarry no longer.  My heart and the empty dark basket bids me out and around the lake to the tendrils of grapevine waiting for me.  I find myself rushing more as I reach the last curve of the lake; a school girl’s bound to my steps.  The air is different here, softer and kinder.  Time slows and I feel the tears prick my eyes.  I drop the basket beneath the large vine and nestle to the ground.

            “Braid the grapevine,” I hear Him say.

            I drop my head because I know I can’t.  My hands are made for baking loaves of bread, my mind is set on the turn of the dough, the texture of the flour, the squish of the raisins.

            Braid the grapevine.  I don’t know how.  My hands are big and careless.  My fingers unprepared and clumsy.  The tendrils taunt me, some so delicate I could crush them, others brittle and easily broken if pressed too hard.

            I wait.  A wind gently stirs the vine, brushing against my cheek it caresses my hands.  I lift them to the vine, taking a large sucker as I feel the power of life course through it, down my hands, and into my arms, gently swirling in my heart the passion to braid grapevines.  I rip my hand away, surely not me.  Maybe someone will come and show me how.  Perhaps a master teacher will guide me as a pupil.  Perhaps the vine will yield to me.

            “Braid the grapevine,” I hear Him say, “Just once today.”

            Just once does not seem too much.  Just once is something I think I can do.  I reach for the vine again, gently pulling softer tendrils around it, a small braid taking form underneath the caress of my fingers.  It is enough.  I stop and gather the fruit that I know I need for many more days of baking bread.

            I turn toward home, stopping once to look back at the vine, the small braid hanging there…waiting.  I turn away for there is always more bread baking.

            Yet, each day with a failed loaf I hear the call from the grapevine.  Braid the grapevine.  So, as I wait for fruit to ready, I make the journey to sit underneath the vine.  I dream of a long braided vine encircling me, but I know that it will take days and days to encourage such a vine out of this tangle.  So, each day I listen and pull together a braid, slowly at first and with much difficulty, then faster and with a dash of zeal.  Soon, my heart can scarcely hold out for loaves and loaves of raisin bread, but presses me on to the grapevine where I braid and braid to my heart’s content. 

            Then, one day I stand near the water’s edge looking up at the vine, its long braided tendril coursing over wooden stakes, along metal wires, drifting down to the ground.  It sways with a gentle breeze waving to me to come as He whispers, “Braid the grapevine.”


*A Vision from the Lord.  I know it's for me, One person, but it must be for you, also.  So, here you go.  One person, braid the grapevine.