The scene was made all the more inviting by the low mooing of milk cows grazing in a nearby meadow. To their deep song was added the grunts of contented swine rooting mast from the woodland floor and the clucking of hens bobbing and scratching along the footpath. The pilgrims looked about, enchanted by the healing green of the forest, the farmyard’s comforting sounds, the sprinkling of colorful wildflowers, and the warm rays of golden sunshine piercing between leafy boughs. And were that not blissful enough, the air was soon sweetened with a singsong melody of the Hausfrau.
Backe, backe Kuchen, der Backer hat gerufen!
Wer will guten Kuchen backen, der muss haben sieben Sachen:
Eier und Schmalz, Butter und Salz, Milch und Mehl, Safran macht den Kuchen gehl Schieb in den of en rein!
(Bake, bake the cakes, the baker has cried!
Who wants good cakes baked, he must have seven things:
Eggs and lard, butter and salt, milk and flour,
Saffron makes the cakes yellow. Shove them in the oven pure!)
Rudolf’s eyes watered and a lump filled his throat. He had heard that rhyme for the whole of his life. Pieter dismounted and wrapped an arm about the lad. “You are home, boy. Go and greet them.”
The lad embraced Pieter. “God bless you, Father. God bless you always.” He turned, then sprinted toward his timber home, where he flung open the door and disappeared into the darkness behind. The singing stopped abruptly. Silence seized the woodland, and nothing stirred until cries of joy rose to heaven as Gerda ran to her son.
Maria and Frieda had been holding hands anxiously. At the sound of Gerda’s happy cries, they burst into tears. It was a precious moment, indeed, one filled with shining eyes and broad smiles.
Then, to the pilgrims’ right, the earth suddenly shook with the sound of feet crashing through the woodland brush. Storming toward the opened door of his home charged the barrel-chested, bearded man of the house, Dieder. Hearing the shrieks of his wife in the trees beyond the fences, the bear of a man roared past the amused travelers and burst through his doorway, axe in hand and readied for battle. Again, utter silence seized the moment until, unashamed, Dieder bawled loudly, like a small boy swept away by utter joy.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Pieter. “Wonderful!” He skipped about on his bowed legs with his face flushed by his glad heart. “I love it!” he cried. “Sing, O ye angels! Sing!”
The group waited in their place until the household settled. In a few moments Dieder and his plump wife emerged from their doorway with arms stretched as wide as their smiles. They called to the pilgrims with shouts of thanksgiving. As Gerda hurried toward Pieter eagerly, the teetering old fellow suddenly had cause to fear! He braced himself as the happy woman fell upon him and lifted him off his feet with both arms wrapped tightly round his bony waist. “Father! You found him … you found my boy!”
Gasping for air, Pieter wheezed, “Ja, God be praised! Please … I can’t breathe!”
“Ha!” roared Dieder. He pried Pieter from his wife’s embrace and squeezed the old man’s aged hand with one of his huge paws.
“Aahh!” cried Pieter. “Aye, aye, you are surely welcome!”
Dieder pulled the limp-limbed priest to his chest and hugged him crying, “Ah! Old fellow! God be praised indeed!”
From the sheep pen, a young girl came running. “Rudi!” she cried. It was Beatrix, his younger sister. The lad ran to meet her, and the two greeted each other with joy.
Sore and breathless, Pieter grinned, and at the sight of his snaggletooth, the farmer roared with laughter. “Come! Come in and eat with us, all of you!”
The rest of that day was spent in tale-telling and feasting. Gerda scurried about her kitchen delivering baskets of freshly baked cakes and loaves of spelt bread to her guests. She raced to her larder for sundry berry preserves as Heinrich studied her bread. “Ah, good woman,” he exclaimed as she returned, “a finer bread I’ve not tasted.”
Gerda blushed.
“Tis true. I am a baker by trade, and I’ve an eye for these things.”
“Only one eye!” laughed Otto.
“Ach! So be it.” Heinrich feigned anger. He turned to Gerda. “Long ago I was reminded that the baker is the priest of the kitchen table. Like the Eucharist at the altar, bread gives us life. It may seem a simple thing, but it is bread that our Lord chose as His body for us.”
“And it is feasts like this one that is our Lord’s vision for his true kingdom!” Alwin stood, his dark eyes swollen red with emotion. “Look about, all of you. What do you see? I see love and charity. I see kindness and grace. See the table, about to be filled with the bounty of God’s goodness.” The knight’s voice thickened with the lump filling his throat. “Oh, dear Heinrich, dear Gerda … bake your bread always with thanksgiving … it is a taste of the feast to come.”