THE SECOND LOAF

What is your portion? What is daily bread?

THE SECOND LOAF

Thalen had not planned to return. He didn’t think the shop would even be there anymore. The bread from Mariven’s shop had satisfied him in a way he could not describe—not fullness in his belly, but an unshakable calm in his bones. For days afterward, colors seemed brighter, burdens lighter. Even the winter wind carried a sweetness.

But the memory gnawed at him.

Why had Mariven looked at him with such knowing eyes?

Why did the bread vanish after only one meal, leaving no crumb behind?

And why, above all, had the baker said: “You have been fed for the Day to come”?

⸻

It was dusk when he found himself once again outside that ivy-covered door. He had told himself he was only passing by. That was not true.

The door opened before he could knock. Mariven stood there, as though he had been expecting him.

“You’re here for another loaf,” the baker said with a smile- not a question.

Thalen hesitated. “Yes. But… not just because I’m hungry.”

Mariven gave another faint smile. “Few return for the same reason they first came. Some return to chase the taste. Others… to understand the Giver.”

Inside, the shop was as before—dim, quiet, smelling faintly of rain and fire. On the table rested another loaf, though this one was shaped differently—longer, with a crust marked by what looked like a pattern of falling rain.

As Thalen reached for it, Mariven said, “Do you know why He doesn’t answer all your questions?”

Thalen paused. “Because… maybe we’re not ready?”

The baker nodded. “And because the knowing isn’t the bread. Trust is the bread.”

⸻

Mariven was busy wrapping the loaf:

“Have you considered the sparrows? They neither sow nor reap, yet your Father feeds them. Have you looked at the lilies? They don’t labor or spin, yet they’re dressed finer than kings. The bread in your hands is not about the loaf—it is about the hand that gives it.”

Thalen felt the weight of the bread—light, yet full, as though holding a promise.

Mariven continued, “When our fathers wandered in the wilderness, He sent manna. Just enough for each day. No more, no less. Why? So they would learn to trust—not the bread, but the Provider.”

⸻

Thalen left the shop with the loaf under his arm. As he walked, he thought about the manna—how it appeared with the morning dew and melted away by nightfall. No one could store it for tomorrow.

Something in him understood that this bread was the same. Not in form, not in taste, but in purpose. It was provision for now, not for stockpiling.

And though he longed for answers—about the loaf, about Mariven, about what it meant to be “fed for the Day to come”—he sensed he was not meant to know everything yet.

As he broke the bread that night, he felt a whisper in his heart:

“Do not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Trust Me for today.”

And this is the day he realized the mystery was not a problem to be solved, but the very thing that kept him returning to the Giver.

The Record of the Bread

The loaves he made were not for storing, but for eating today.

Those who ate with reverence found strength for the journey. Those who treated it lightly drifted into the shadows, their hunger dulled, their hearts grown hard.

The baker would say,

“Today, if you hear His voice, take the bread and do not turn away. You have tasted the Bread of Life—do not spurn the Lord who gives it. There is no other table where you will find it.”

Many received the loaf gladly. Others took it and never returned. To these, it was as if the bread had never been given.

And the mystery was this: the bread was not the baker’s, nor was it for sale. It was the gift of the Living One—your salvation wrapped in a crust.

For it was said among the wise,

“If you set it aside, you will not find it again. If you drift, you will not smell its fragrance. Hold fast to what you have received.”

Thus the warning passed from mouth to mouth, written in no book, but etched on the hearts of those who knew:

The Bread of Life is not just for the body, but for the soul. And the day you refuse it may be the day it is no longer offered.

The Last Loaf Before the Feast

The shop was quieter than usual. No wind at the door, no footsteps in the street. Thalen entered to find Mariven standing behind the table, but this time there was no loaf waiting—only a small clay jar of oil and an empty basket.

“You’ve come again.” Mariven said warmly, his voice softer than ever. “But today, there is none to take home.”

Thalen’s heart sank. “Has the Giver stopped sending it?”

Mariven shook his head. “No. He is preparing the great loaf—the one for the feast. This was always meant to point to that.”

Thalen frowned. “Feast?”

The baker’s eyes gleamed like embers in low light. “Yes. The marriage supper. The table where the nations gather, where every tear is wiped away, where the Lamb Himself breaks the bread and serves it to His own. All these loaves you’ve eaten—they were shadows, tastes of the true.”

Thalen felt the weight of his words, and an ache grew in his chest—not of hunger, but of longing.

Mariven continued, “The manna in the wilderness was for a journey. The loaves here were for a pilgrimage. But the Bread of Life in His Kingdom will be for home. There, you will never hunger again.”

The oil in the jar caught the candlelight as Mariven set it beside Thalen. “Until then, keep your lamp burning. Do not drift away. For the day will come when the door is shut, and only those who have kept watch will enter.”

He leaned closer. “Remember: Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart. The table is being set even now. Every loaf you’ve received here is an invitation to eat at His table.”

⸻

That night, Thalen walked home without bread, yet more full than he had ever been.

The scent of unseen grain seemed to follow him.

Somewhere ahead, beyond the veil of days, he knew a door would open to a table without end.

And there—he would taste the Bread of Life forever.

I am the bread of life!