HOT CROSSED BUNS

Music Pick: New Soul
“Good Friday” turned out to be a very good Friday. I just have one question.
Why do simple things prove to be so challenging? For example, Helping create those gospel aha moments for my kids! They knew it and loved it (I might add) just a few short years ago on the other side of the vale, and yet the suggestion of anything remotely spiritual is met with marked resistance.
There is of course a recipe for success in these matters, but the recipe is similar to a recipe you might use while filling a witches caldron, some of the ingredients are nearly impossible to produce. Like eye of newt, who has that?
The recipe for successful gospel teaching in the home is simple. It may include the following 1. Entertainment, laden with large doses of the spirit to compensate for any inadequacies or failed attempts at humor. 2. Speed, I’m not sure if ADD is prevalent in all children or just mine, never the less you have about 2 minutes. and 3. An enormous amount of love (this truly is a gift, not something you can produce on your own, at least not now). These are the elements. Anything less than strict adherence will produce a system wide meltdown.
So anyway, if you are in need of a good recipe for Easter Teaching it just so happens I stumbled a crossed one on good Friday. Here it is.
First; hot crossed buns, make some!
Second; Use the time while they are eating to basically teach the why of the hot crossed buns; “The Saviors’ great love for them”.
Third; Read them this fabulous story written by none other than our very own, Linda R. Thatcher called HOT CROSSED BUNS. I love the principles taught, and the love it instills in me for family members I can’t remember, and the hope that my children feel a sense of self worth as they connect themselves to such good people.
Here is the Story cut and past or just enjoy.
Hot cross buns
It was still raining hard when school let out. Lynn thought about staying in town with his sister, but it was Friday - Good Friday. His dad would be waiting for him at the St. Mary’s River crossing and his mom was sure to have hot cross buns fresh out of the oven. He could almost taste them, plump and warm with icing melting between the crosses that his Catholic mother clipped on top.
He tightened the saddle cinch, put on his slicker, mounted the bay mare and headed south. It was a five –mile ride to the rented land where his dad had bulled two old granaries together. They served as living quarters that spring while they plowed and planted the 100 acres of wheat. For now, it was home. It was where his mom and dad were and where he wanted to be. His fatter needed him and spending the weekend in town with nothing to do was not an option for the boy.
At seven, his legs were still a bit short for the stirrups. His father taught him to secure his feet between the straps on top of the stirrup brace and he rode well. When he reached Lee’s Creek, the generally nominal stream was a vast angry monster. The floodwaters pounded the wooden cribbing barely clearing beneath the bridge. Dismounting, the boy led the gentle bay mare a few steps onto the bridge confident that she could sense whether it was safe to cross. She seemed calm so he led her across the bridge, noticing just as he reached the other side that his feet were getting wet. He looked back to see the water lapping over the bridge planking.
Safely on the road again, he quickly mounted and began riding hard into the rain the remaining four miles to the engorged St. Mary’s River, his last obstacle before reaching home. He could feel a chill on his back and realized that the slicker was soaking through. Soon his whole body would be as cold as his nearly numb hands. He thought of the times he had felt this cold riding the fields for new lambs and how pleasant it was to come home to his mother’s fragrant kitchen and feel her warm arms. She had been a cook on a threshing crew when Rob, his father, met her. Her skin was as translucent as frosted glass. She had black eyes and shiny black hair with a strip of natural auburn highlighting a perfect widow’s peak. He was immediately attracted to her. Lynn smiled remembering with pride his father’s frequent comment, you mother’s so beautiful people stop and stare at her.
By the time he reached the river, the driving rain had drenched the slicker soaking his flour sack shirt and patched bib overalls. The raging river was swollen and filled with debris. His heart almost failed him and then through the downpour he saw his dad waiting on the opposite bank. His freckles stood out on his pale face. The rain plastered his reddish-brown hair to his head and ran down his neck. He shivered! A mite shorter than the other bys at school and rather shy, he had great confidence and trust in his father and a huge dose of courage and faith.
An appreciation for God had been instilled in him by his Catholic mother, Agatha Eva Sturm Reeder. Coming near the middle of a family of ten children, she learned untiring and unmeasured service. For her, it wasn’t a question of who did what or how much; she did what had to be done and she did it cheerfully. She recognized the tender mercies of a supreme being and she prayed often. She had many unanswered questions about Robs Mormon religion and she yearned for understanding.
While her husband and son faced each other across the dangerous river, she wiped the top of the old cook stove with a cloth dipped in lard and then checked to see if the hot cross buns had finished browning. Unexpectedly an ominous feeling enveloped her. She dropped to her knees. The cold wet wind whistled through the cracks and knotholes, vibrating the wheat trapped between the rough floor planking and billowing her skirt she shuddered and whispered, oh, God, if Rob and the boy are in trouble, please help them, bring them home safe, please! A sweet calm replaced her foreboding. She rose, took the brown bunds from the over, put a chair up to the door to keep it from blowing open and started to make frosting.
Outside, the storm increased in intensity until Rob could barely see the boy across the river. He thought how much he loved this obedient son who tried so hard to please him and yet how hard it was to tell him of his love. His heart pained as he remember how betrayed he felt when God had taken his mother when he was barely seventeen and his own infant son, Robert.
Fear and uncertainty gripped him as he watched the brave boy urge the reluctant mare into the angry river, kicking her ribs and slapping her rump with the reins. For a few moments the horse struggled valiantly against the boiling torrent but exhausted she began to drift with the muddy current. Rob saw the danger and spurred his buckskin a hundred feet downstream where he sprang from the step bank into the swirling waters. The boy and his horse were headed straight for a tangled mass of barbed wire, tree limbs and fence posts. Rob screamed a warning, but it was no use. Without warning both the boy and the horse disappeared into the mustard deep. God don’t take my son he screamed as he struggled to keep the horse swimming strong against the swift current and slightly downstream from the murky grave. Sticking out of the tangled debris, he saw his son’s boot. Barely able to reach it he grabbed the boy around the ankle and pulled hard. He didn’t budge. Rob wrapped the reins around the saddle horn. Realizing the boy would soon drowned he took hold of the foot with both hands and with all his strength he gave on mighty yank. The boy came loose. His powerful right arm clung to the coughing, choking boy and with reins in his left hand; h turned the powerful stallion toward shore.
Exhausted and gasping for air the buckskin scrambled onto the eroding bank with his front hooves. Lunging forward again his back hooves barely cleared the water and they were once again on firm ground. Rob drew the boy across the saddle in front of him. His limp arms circled his father’s neck and Rob held him tight. Tears stung Rob’s eyes but the tender words stuck in his throat. The boy’s warm blood trickled down Rob’s cheek. Her son, let’s see how badly you’re cut! He said, as he parted the hairs on t? he asked. I’m O.K. the boy whispered. Silent tears rolled down his faint freckled cheeks and he laid his head against his father’s wet back. Rob loosened the reins, leaned slightly forward and off they loped to the tender arms of faith-filled wife and mother and worm hot cross buns.