Jesus said, “I’m telling you the most solemn and sober truth now: Whoever believes in me has real life, eternal life. I am the Bread of Life.” (John 6: 51) 

After Sunday Mass, the pastor of our sleepy farming village where my dad and uncles were born and who decades later sent donations for a new, small church, invited me to spend Monday with him. The day started with a drive deep into the fields. An old shack with smoke rising from its stack was the only building in sight. We stopped. I understood that he wanted me to stay in the car. He went in and five minutes later came out with a round loaf of bread a full two feet wide. He explained to me that was his weekly loaf while he broke off two warm pieces for us to eat. Dare I say it was heavenly.

On the way home he explained to me that today the bread stood alone with just butter and other spreads. On Tuesday, still fresh, it would make great sandwiches. On Wednesday, chunks would be broken off to absorb gravy from sauces. Thursday it would be cubed as part of a very hearty salad. Friday, the dried pieces would be put into the vegetable soup to thicken it. Saturday, drizzled with olive oil, some would be mixed  with water and fresh tomato wedges. And the remaining stale remnants would be grounded into bread crumbs to mix with grated cheese to sprinkle over Sunday pasta. Nothing wasted. A new loaf would begin the process again on Monday. The bread of life comes to us in many different forms but always from the same loving, nourishing source.