on cinnamon rolls and sanctification

my friend–
jessie, the writer–
wrote me a letter of encouragement
a manifesto for us idealists
to inspire courage as we live in the un-ideal, the un-idyllic.

she says that we–
impertinent, pesky idealists–
want magical, fairy-dusted, warm cinnamon rolls
good things, best things
perfection, now
heaven on earth

she says
sometimes we get cinnamon rolls
but mostly the kitchen is closed.
the idealists beat on the doors
why can’t heaven roll down, now?

my other friend–
the realist-idealist with stubborn hope springing eternal–
sees another truth and speaks.
heaven-come-down rolls out the refining fire
to purify the dross
burn the chaff
to make the ideal of our character and our world.
only then can the cinnamon rolls last forever
otherwise they mold.

the fire hurts.
it burns
the pain
too great to bear,

but the Baker is baking
slow and steady
kneading the resistance right out of me
with hands firm but full of grace.

into the oven
(out of the frying pan into the fire?)
one fire or another
self-chosen or Wisdom-picked
either way i’ll burn
either way

you choose, He whispers
take your time.
I’ll be
in the kitchen–
closed, quiet–
only dough

is this a grace in itself–
heaven, here and now
a burnt cinnamon roll