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I’m feeling uncharitable today. A few weeks ago, I tried to do something kind for someone going through a hard time. I gave them a boule of homemade sourdough bread and a jar of strawberry jam that I made and canned myself from strawberries I grew from starts. Today, I heard through the grapevine (strawberry vine?) that they had complained, saying they could have bought bread and jam for themselves if they needed bread and jam. Well, yes, you could have. But I didn’t give you bread and jam as an emergency food ration. For those of you who may not know, sourdough begins with a starter that needs feeding and waiting and watching. Then there’s mixing the dough, stretching and folding it throughout the day, letting it rise, shaping the loaves, waiting again, heating the oven, scoring the tops, and finally baking it. Then there was the strawberry jam. Planting, weeding, watering and picking the berries. Washing and hulling, cooking them down with sugar. Preparing the jars. Filling them while the jam was hot, wiping every rim, adding the lids, processing them in a boiling-water canner, and waiting for them to seal. Hours later, there was a boule of of bread and a jar of jam being delivered but apparently, they “could have bought bread and jam” for themselves. I didn’t hear the comment directly, and I think knowing they said it to someone else made it sting worse than it otherwise might have, but I felt defeated. Because it wasn’t just bread and jam to me. It was time. It was care. It was concern dressed up as flour on the counter, dough on my hands, and strawberries, and sugar, and sticky spoons. And now, I’m sitting on my sofa with my feet up struggling with how much less inclined I feel to minister to that person again. I don’t like feeling that feeling. But it’s real and I’m not sure exactly what to do with it. They’d better give my jar back. 😡