Remember Lot's Wife

What Sourdough Has Taught Me About Leaving Yesterday Behind

This morning, during the quiet routine that has become the foundation of my days, I found myself in the Book of Luke.

Coffee.

Scripture.

Prayer.

My journal nearby.

And then I came to three words spoken by Jesus in Luke 17:32.

“Remember Lot's wife.”

I read the words again.

And then I did what I do.

I asked a question.

What does that mean?

That question sent me into one of my investigative mornings. I went back to Genesis. I read about Lot and his family leaving Sodom. I returned to Luke. I read the surrounding verses. I followed references.

And eventually, as seems to happen so often these days, Scripture brought me back to something happening in my own life.

And somehow...

back to sourdough.

The Temptation to Look Back

I have been thinking a great deal lately about forgiveness.

Not forgiving others.

My own.

There are things in my past I deeply regret.

Choices I would make differently today.

Words I wish I hadn't spoken.

Things I wish I had done better.

I have confessed them.

I have asked God for forgiveness.

I believe I have been forgiven.

And yet...

every once in a while, something from the past finds its way back into my thoughts.

And I pick it up again.

Examine it.

Turn it over.

Replay it.

Sometimes I even find myself asking God to forgive me again for something I have already placed before Him.

That was what caught my attention this morning.

Why am I continuing to carry something I have already confessed?

Why am I asking God repeatedly for a mercy I believe He has already given?

Why do I keep turning around?

Remember Lot's Wife

Jesus' words in Luke weren't specifically a teaching about revisiting forgiven sins.

I want to be careful about that.

But those three words caused me to examine my own life.

Remember Lot's wife.

She was leaving.

But she looked back.

And this morning I found myself wondering about all the ways I still look backward.

Not because I want my old life back.

I don't.

Not because I haven't changed.

I have.

But perhaps because regret can convince us that continuing to punish ourselves is somehow evidence that we are truly sorry.

I'm beginning to understand that it isn't.

There is a difference between repentance and remaining imprisoned by regret.

One asks us to acknowledge what happened, confess it, learn from it, and change.

The other keeps asking us to return to the scene.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I don't believe God asks me to live there.

Mercy

First John tells us that when we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us and cleanse us.

And Lamentations reminds us that His mercies are new every morning.

New every morning.

I sat with those words today.

Mercy isn't something I earn by feeling badly long enough.

It isn't something I finally deserve after carrying enough shame.

And it doesn't expire because I woke up remembering something I wish I could change.

Mercy is received.

It could be that's the part I am still learning.

I know how to confess.

I know how to ask for forgiveness.

Maybe I am still learning how to receive it.

To believe that when I have placed something before God honestly, repented, and done what I can to make things right, I don't honor Him by continually dragging it back into today.

I can learn from yesterday without continuing to live there.

And Then, Of Course, There Was Bread

I thought about my dough.

Because apparently I can no longer contemplate anything important without eventually finding sourdough somewhere in the middle of it.

A loaf doesn't always turn out the way I hoped.

I've overproofed dough.

Underproofed it.

Missed fermentation.

Made mistakes with hydration.

Scored badly.

Burned crusts.

Produced loaves I wouldn't sell.

But once that bake is finished, it's finished.

I learn.

I pay attention.

I make adjustments.

And then...

I begin again.

Fresh flour.

Fresh water.

A living starter.

Another opportunity.

I don't take yesterday's failed loaf and put it back into the oven hoping somehow I can bake it differently.

That loaf has already taught me what it came to teach me.

My responsibility is to carry the lesson forward.

Not the loaf.

Maybe grace asks the same of me.

What Am I Carrying Into Today?

There is accountability in faith.

There is confession.

There is repentance.

There is making amends where we can.

There is change.

But there is also mercy.

I have started to recognize that receiving mercy means believing God when He says the past does not have to be carried into every new morning.

That doesn't erase what happened.

It doesn't excuse it.

It doesn't rewrite the story.

It means I allow what happened to teach me without allowing it to continue defining me.

That distinction feels important.

Because I cannot change yesterday.

But I can decide what I carry from it into today.

Wisdom?

Yes.

Humility?

Absolutely.

Responsibility?

Always.

Gratitude for forgiveness?

Every single day.

But shame?

I don't think I need to keep packing that bag.

New Every Morning

I think that is why those words from Lamentations feel so beautiful to me.

His mercies are new every morning.

Not because yesterday didn't happen.

Because today has.

Another morning.

Another prayer.

Another opportunity to live differently.

Another chance to show up.

Every. Single. Day.

I wonder if that’s what happened again this morning.

I opened my Bible and found three words spoken by Jesus.

“Remember Lot's wife.”

Three words that made me curious enough to ask a question.

That question led me back through Scripture, into my own life, and eventually, as it so often does, back to sourdough.

I am beginning to recognize this rhythm.

Scripture gives me the question.

My life gives me the experience.

Sourdough gives me the language.

And faith helps me hold all three together.

I am beginning to understand that is why flour and water continue to teach me things I never expected to learn in a kitchen.

Sourdough has taught me that yesterday's fermentation informs today's bake.

But it doesn't become today's bake.

I carry the knowledge forward.

Then I begin again.

That's what I am being asked to do with my own life.

Confess what needs confessing.

Learn what needs learning.

Make right what I can.

Receive the mercy.

And walk forward.

No need to keep turning around to prove I remember where I've been.

I remember.

God knows.

The lesson remains.

But so does His mercy.

And mercy has no expiration date.

This morning, I wrote three sentences in my journal that I think I want to carry with me:

Confess it.

Release it.

Walk in mercy.

Perhaps tomorrow morning I will need to remember them again.

That's okay.

Mercy will be waiting there too.

Warmly,

Kathy
Art of The Crumb