The Story of the Great Roanoke County Sourdough Bread Drive
The Story of the Great Roanoke County Sourdough Bread Drive
Dear Henry,
When I first moved to Roanoke, I cried.
Not because of the mountains, they’re beautiful, blue, and soft like folded fabric, or because the city lacked charm. Roanoke is wonderful. I cried because of the house.
We had rented it online from Oklahoma, sight unseen. It was the only option at the time, and when we arrived, I discovered it was a small, mean little house in a bad neighborhood, the kind of place I’d spent my younger years trying to leave behind. It was a crushing blow at the end of a long drive, and I found myself asking (again), “Really, Big G? This is the plan?”
Nevertheless, I tried to make the best of it. I blessed the house, threw myself into projects like the Old Lick Cemetery restoration, and reminded myself that patience is a virtue, though not one of mine.
“There is not a thing that is more positive than bread.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky
That year, three themes followed me everywhere: patience, the Prodigal Son, and bread.
Everywhere I turned, I stumbled upon lessons in waiting, as found in Romans 8:25 and James 5:7, verses about trust and endurance. And then, the Prodigal Son kept appearing, though I always found my sympathy resting not with either son, but with the father, whose children only valued him for what he could give them.
That story reminded me of a scene from The Chosen, where James wonders aloud if people only follow Jesus for the miracles, and whether anyone would stay if He stopped performing them. It made me think about healing.
You see, I don’t expect the Big G to heal me from “The Accident.” He already has, twice over. My son and I survived what we shouldn’t have, we recovered more fully than we had any right to, and while I live with pain, I’ve learned to see it as part of the gift. I no longer pray for healing; I simply try to live the life I was given.
“With bread and wine, you can walk your road.”
— Spanish Proverb
That realization came into focus during the Advent season. I watched the episode of The Chosen where Jesus tells James to trust the purpose of his unhealed body, and I decided to do the same. No more asking, no more arguing. Just trusting.
I even chose Father Joel Sember’s Oriens as my Advent meditation, since it centered on the story of Christ rather than “healing journeys.” It turned out to be the perfect companion, aligning beautifully with our house-hunting.
We found our new home just before Christmas, moved in around the Presentation, and Fish’s birthday, and at last, I felt the long thread of patience had come full circle.
But the bread theme didn’t end there.
Between a parish lecture on "Desiderio Desideravi" and a class on the Joyful Mysteries that connected the manger and the Eucharist, and my own reading on the history of agriculture, I kept circling back to one truth: in nearly every faith and every age, humanity has offered bread as a sign of thanksgiving.
So when we prepared to move, I decided my first act in our new home would be to bake bread, a literal act of gratitude. And because I never do things halfway, I chose sourdough.
“With your thanksgiving sacrifice of well-being, you shall bring your offering with cakes of leavened bread.”
— Leviticus 7:13
I started the starter a week before closing, nurturing it daily like a small living prayer. By the time it was ready, the timing was ridiculous. Sourdough needs hours of rising and resting, and our move was scheduled for the same day.
So, I began the dough the night before, shaped it in the morning, left it to rise while we loaded the truck, and baked it as we unloaded boxes. Fish was convinced I had lost my mind, but I didn’t care.
When that first loaf came out of the oven, golden, fragrant, alive, I knew it was the right offering. Our first meal in our new home was warm bread, eaten in thanksgiving.
We are settled now, surrounded by mountains, books, and a sense of gratitude. And every time I bake a loaf, I remember: patience, trust, and faith all rise in their own time.
xoxo,
a.d. elliott
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a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller living in Salem, Virginia.
In addition to her travel writings at www.takethebackroads.com, you can also read her book reviews at www.riteoffancy.com and US military biographies at www.everydaypatriot.com
Her online photography gallery can be found at shop.takethebackroads.com
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