For the Deseret News, 2012
Aunt Maggie wasn't really my aunt. Mother's parents died when she was young, so she lived with an uncle and aunt and their daughter Maggie.
I
never realized that Maggie was different. Because of a physical handicap, she
was forever trapped in the body of an 11-year-old girl. As a child, she
underwent dangerous surgeries that left her with a dramatic speech impediment
along with other physical ailments. She remained a spinster all her life,
living out her days in the small greystone house on a corner in Fowlerville,
Mich.
Forever
on her own, Maggie embraced all of us as family and we spent many Sundays at
her home enjoying some very odd meals. You see, Maggie believed she didn't need
recipes to cook. In fact, she didn't even need measuring spoons or cups. With a
handful of this and a pinch of that, Maggie would mix up her brand of culinary
specialties — like her infamous dinner rolls.
My
brothers and I tried not to snicker as we passed the inedible orbs around the
table. The steady glare of Mother sent a clear message, "Take one and eat
it." I took a bite while Aunt Maggie looked inquisitively in my direction.
I chewed and chewed while she stared and stared. Finally, she asked,
"Well, how are they?"
On
the spot, with my brothers looking and Mother's face turning a deep red, I
summoned my courage and blurted, "Well, they're chewy!"
Little
did I know this was a precursor to a lesson about love, service, and Christmas
that would forever etch Maggie into my heart and memory.
Each
year, after Thanksgiving passed, we set aside a Saturday to join in the massive
production effort known as Maggie's brown bread.
Without
a recipe and calling on her somewhat lapsing memory, she would grab a handful
or two of flour, a fist full of sugar, a scoop of shortening and other
ingredients and toss them in a huge bowl while Mother hand-mixed them.
There
was a family secret surrounding this event that we were to keep upon penalty of
a quick and painful death — Maggie's brown bread was awful!
The
nearly 100 loaves she made each year seemed like a thousand. After they had
baked and cooled, each loaf was carefully wrapped and tied with a bow. Then my
brothers and I would be charged with the sacred responsibility of delivering
Maggie's Brown Bread to the residents of Fowlerville.
I
loathed this job. It was cold; the bread was nasty and everyone in Fowlerville
knew it! Other kids would laugh and point at us as we wheeled the red wagon
from door to door, knocked and proclaimed, "Merry Christmas from
Maggie!"
It
was always the same, they smiled politely, took the bread and told us to thank
Maggie for her thoughtfulness. The real truth was that the bread went in the
front door and straight out the back. Maggie's bread had a better chance of
being used as building bricks than ending up on someone's dinner table.
But
Maggie loved everyone and everyone was good to Maggie. This was her way of
telling them she loved and appreciated them. No one ever told her the secret so
far as I know. Not us, our parents, and certainly not the good people of
Fowlerville.
As
far as I know, Maggie left this world with the recipe for brown bread in her
heart.
In
my later years, I was moved by her selfless act of kindness and love every year
until the last year of her life. She sacrificed to buy the ingredients,
sacrificed her time to make the bread and lovingly prepared it for delivery. I
firmly believe that the recipients looked forward each year to her Christmas
gift. She didn't fill their stomachs. But she filled their hearts.
I
remember Maggie now as vividly as if it were 50 years ago standing in her
little kitchen working away. I am thankful that she taught me such a valuable
lesson. Who would have thought that a loaf of bread would teach a little boy a
lesson about a gift of love equal to the Christmas gift so many centuries ago.
A gift of love, of sacrifice — a gift that was accepted by millions.
And
so it is that while we beckon Christ in our front door, we too, often put him
right out the back. Every Christmas, like Maggie's brown bread, we can partake
of the gift of love and open the door for him again.
May brown-bread blessings
find their way into your homes and hearts this holiday season.
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