As black treacle dribbled, thick and glistening, everywhere other than where it was meant to go, this snippet of tantalising thoughtfulness, caught my sticky attention – ‘how profoundly delicious, Nigella!’. (Sticky Toffee Pudding, and it was very good). The miracle of baking – simple ingredients, measured, stirred together and baked (with love) emerge from a warm oven, a sumptuous, mouth-watering blessing, delighting hungry tummies on a cold, wet winter’s day. The power of sugar, flour, butter, eggs and cream in the hands of a loving mum.
People have questioned the Easter miracle for thousands of years, from the puzzled and fear-struck Romans of the day to the most cynical and eye-rolling atheist today, and probably until the very end of time. The science doesn’t add up (not like in baking), a very dead man, cannot breathe again, stand, fold his own grave-clothes, roll away his own tombstone and walk out into the bright morning sunlight taking in the beauty of the Easter garden, waiting for his friends to arrive. That would be nothing short of a miracle. And yet, that’s exactly it, that miracle right there, the very centre of the Christian faith – I don’t understand the miracle, but I am so grateful for it. This miracle, that emerges from the Easter tomb, blesses my heart every day. I don’t understand it – but then, this miracle is not to be questioned, but experienced. The power of undying, rescuing, redeeming love at the heart of a loving, merciful heavenly Father.