“Kneaded in the Furnace: A Psalm 69 Sourdough Story”

“Kneaded in the Furnace: A Psalm 69 Sourdough Story”

The dawn was still grey when I entered the kitchen on a chilly morning in January 2021, the world outside soaked in silence. The sourdough starter waited on the tabletop, alive and breathing slowly in its glass jar — as if it too had been crying out through the night.

I stood before it with Psalm 69 open beside me:

"Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths..."

These words matched my soul. I wasn’t just baking bread this morning — I was praying with my hands. Each fold, each rise, each waiting hour was my cry, my offering.

I mixed the flour and water with the starter. My fingers felt the cold dough — heavy, unyielding. Just like the weight in my chest. The psalmist's words echoed: “I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched.”

How many times have I stood here, kneading and waiting — not just for bread to rise, but for peace? For answers? For healing in the silence?

As the dough rested, I sat down with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and watched the soft stretch of the sourdough slowly rise. It was hidden work — silent transformation in the dark. “But I pray to you, Lord, in the time of your favor.”

How strange that the dough rises best in quiet, undisturbed time — just like our hearts in suffering. God, too, does His best shaping us in the long waits or hauls in life.

Later, I turned the dough gently. It resisted, then yielded. I whispered: “In your great mercy, turn to me; do not hide your face from your servant.”

The oven was now hot, almost unbearably so — like the fire of affliction. Yet the bread needed the heat. Without it, it would remain lifeless. So also, did the psalmist know: deliverance doesn't always come before the flames, but through them.

When I finally pulled the bread from the oven, golden and crackling, it was not just food — it was prayer answered in crust and crumb. It bore the marks of heat, of time, of being stretched and broken. Just like me. And yet, there it was — nourishment for my family, born through quiet suffering.

As I laid the golden coloured, crispy crust bread on the table, I whispered the last words of the psalm: "The Lord hears the needy and does not despise his captive people. Let heaven and earth praise Him..."

This bread — humble, risen, and broken — was not just for our stomachs, but for our hearts. A testimony: God the father never ever abandons us, neither in the kitchen, nor in the silence, nor in the deep waters. He is kneading you and me, even now. All we have to say is “have thine way oh Lord, have thine way!”

*Adapted from back in the day events. Incidents back in time.