How They Eat in Heaven


Ten minutes before Sacrament meeting was scheduled to begin, Reed burst into the kitchen wearing his dark suit and an air of frustration. “What’s wrong?” I asked, pajama-clad, washing the thermometer for one of the sick kids.

“There’s no bread,” he said as he rummaged through our bread drawer. “Last week was General Conference and the teachers’ quorum presidency forgot to make the assignment. None of the advisors are at church yet, so the bishopric gets to fix the problem.” He shut the drawer and opened the freezer. Grabbing a frozen loaf, he shoved it into the microwave and set the defrost timer, then looked at his watch and shook his head.

I peeked out the front window, where I could see my 14-year-old son and his friend in the backseat of Reed’s car, looking only slightly sheepish.

When the timer beeped, Reed retrieved the bread and tucked it under his arm. Although exasperated, he paused to kiss me on his way out. “Good luck,” I said.

He rolled his eyes and forced a smile, then headed for the door.

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