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I love baking. It’s a form of art and thus requires a set mood. Personally, when I’m feeling the inspiration for some baked beauty, I turn on the oven and an ’80s radio station before going all domestic housewife. I wasn’t always this way; it took me quite some time before I learned the real art of baking . . . that baking powder is not the same as baking soda, that sugar cookies aren’t supposed to be quite that brown. It was definitely a learning process.

One time, in my earlier stages as an artist, I decided to attempt to create the picture-perfect chocolate chip cookie. Before baking, I ate half the dough. The few that made it into the oven weren’t my best work, but they weren’t bad either. I was clearly no Picasso, but these cookies would surely satisfy any sweet tooth. All finished, I was walking away when my dad peered over my shoulder.

“You’re not done are you?”

“No.” (I totally was done.)

“Good, ’cause there’s a lot there yet.”

I peered into the mixing bowl and thought but didn’t say: Obviously vision declines with age. . . .

He knowingly chuckled. “Here, watch this.”

My dad grabbed the spatula and skimmed along the side of the bowl. He had the artist’s touch. In a few minutes a small pile of scrapings had turned into a large pile of dough. He sculpted it into a perfect round, plated it, and set it in the oven.

Twelve minutes later I saw the largest, most breathtaking cookie of my life.

He smiled.

I smiled.

He took his portion and left me to the dishes.

Fathers are like that.

Our Father is like that. He swoops in from time to time and in a simple way shows us something grand. I might look at the recipe for general guidance, but there’s nothing like when he comes into our lives and shows us his way. Personally, these moments come at odd times, when I’m least expecting it. He teaches us a lesson, like how sometimes we overlook life’s big chocolaty moments because we don’t have the eyes to see.

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