Some people are beaten down so hard
by life and then there are those who
are beaten down for their sake. He thinks
of when he was a young boy in his grand-
mother’s kitchen watching her pound the
big mound of dough into submission with
her wood pastry roller and then sprinkling
the carcass with white embalming dust and
rolling out the body with the rolling-pin — back
and forth, back and forth — until it was as flat as
she wanted it to be, except the dough didn’t
bleed, never bled like those always do who stand
up to oppression and suffer the batons of bigotry.
They bleed and some die as the injustice rolls
over them like his grandmother’s roller, but as
with his grandmother’s dough, when she put it in
the oven, it wasn’t to burn it to ashes but to watch
it warm and rise and form a beautiful crust to
protect that which was so light and tender inside.
The protesters don’t rise like a Phoenix from the
ashes, rather they rise in resurrection and their
blood forms a beautiful, brown crust to be broken
at the dinner table while Jesus’ followers consume
the delicious, divine, life-giving bread.