Faith and Flour

I grew up on a small rented farm near a tiny town of 350 folks in Nebraska. There were seven of us kids, and Mom and Dad had their hands full keeping us in line and fed. They were devout Catholics, which helped keep us on a good track, for the most part. Many of my best memories are of the time we all spent in Mom's kitchen, which is where she always seemed to be. In June, you might find us picking mulberries or running out to collect the eggs. Mom used to tell us how her family grew their own wheat and ground it into flour when she was a kid. If they didn't store enough flour, or the bugs got into it, they went hungry. I watched Mom lean on her faith day after day just to get by, but I never really understood how she did it. We had so little, and yet she made us all feel so loved.