Bread

Bread. 

Everyday. 

Every day. 

Every meal. 

Bread is life. 

Love baked fresh every morning. 

Dusty arms kneading

Dough stretching, growing, living

On this night it is unleavened. 

Our ancestors in haste

Their journey long, urgent. 

No time to rise. 

With bread we remember. 

That he would use bread

To explain

To teach

To love

Makes perfect sense. 

We know bread. 

We understand it. 

Bread. 

Every day. 

Every meal. 

Bread of Life. 

Mercy made fresh every morning. 

Forgiving arms outstretched 

Love rising, growing, living. 

On this night it is raised

Bread from Heaven

Maker, not made

Blessed

Broken

Shared

With bread we remember.

©️Laura Moore 2019

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Christmas Reflection

In a borrowed cradle

Hewn from stone

Swaddled.

A Passover lamb

Kept free from blemish

First cry

Beneath the star.

Light in the darkness

A baby, pure and innocent

God in human form

Vulnerable and weak

Born to serve

To suffer

To save

Shadow of the cross

Upon the newborn King

Final cry 

As darkness cloaks the earth 

Covering the sun

Broken body, bearing my blemish

Swaddled again

And laid to rest

In a borrowed tomb

Hewn from stone

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We Remain

Made in the image of God

But not to image Christ 

Male and female

He created them

But not to image Christ

He saw that they were very good

But not good enough

To image Christ 

I don’t look like God’s human form

As if His maleness

Is more

Than His humanity

God made Himself small 

Small enough to be a man

But not small enough -

It seems -

To be a woman

In Christ

There is no male or female

But only men image Christ 

Fit to carry the Christ-child

Fit to finance His ministry 

Fit to remain at the foot of the cross

But not fit - you say - to image Christ

The first at the empty tomb

The first to meet the risen Christ

The first to spread the news

But not to image Christ

Backbone of the church

Children, flowers, teas

Made to be silent, obedient, busy

But not to image Christ

Don’t like it?

We can leave

You say

But we don’t come for you 

Not your table

We gather around

Not your body and blood 

We treasure

We remain for

Christ in the Eucharist

And myself

Hidden in Christ

©️Laura Moore 2025

Image by Falco, Pixabay

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The Shape of Me

It’s an interesting thing.

Interesting?

Not interesting.

I mean,

Sad.

To know that people look at you

And would rather be dead

Than look like you

Rather risk the damage

Internally

Than look like you 

And also to find 

It’s the people

You thought highly of

The people 

You thought loved and respected you

But not enough

Because they look at you

And see their nightmares

In your shape

And everyone around them

Congratulates

The success of looking 

Less and less

And less

Like you

Because when they are less

They are happy

But I am more

More free

More empowered 

More distanced from the patriarchy

From those who would reduce us,

To nothing

But people so focused

With whitewashing our tombs 

That we don’t see 

What’s going on around us

To have us disappear,

So desperate to be less,

That we won’t fight back

How sad to be afraid

Of fat

Because there are so many

Worse things

I could be

I could stop seeing Jesus 

In the faces of those I meet

Because I’m looking

At my own reflection

But I am more than fat

I am more than what you see

I am made in God’s image

I love and I am loved

For who I am

And because of who He is

And the more of me there is

The more there is 

Of me 

To love

©️Laura Moore 2025

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