Hot Cross Grace

Baking hope on Good Friday, one spiced bun at a time.

Late afternoon settles over the kitchen, the kind of hush that comes when everyone’s home yet happily occupied: no school runs, no bells, just the slow rhythm of a holiday. On Good Friday the quiet feels sacred, like the long‑held breath between heartbreak and hallelujah. I whisk milk, oil, and sugar together, watching curls of steam rise like the evening prayers tangled in my chest. The recipe is Ree Drummond’s, the one I flagged with a sticky note when I vowed never to settle for store‑bought buns again.

While the mixture cools, I open Mark’s Gospel:

Jesus let out a loud cry and died.
Mark 15:37 CEB

Everything in me wants to look away, to rush to Sunday’s lilies and trumpets, but the Spirit whispers stay. Hold the sorrow. Even the foundation must sit undisturbed so the yeast can do its quiet work.

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After twenty or so patient minutes, I scatter the yeast across the surface and watch it bloom, tiny galaxies of life in a pool of sweet milk. I think of the women who stood at a distance when the sky cracked open and the curtain tore. They stayed, too. Love often looks like staying when every instinct says run.

Flour goes in, turning the batter thick and shaggy. I cover the dutch oven with it’s lid and set it aside in a warm corner on my kitchen counter. For one holy hour the dough rises and so does my lament. I name aloud the weight I carry: the wars I scroll past, the friend’s test result, the teenager wrestling with depression and anxiety. The kitchen becomes my Gethsemane and I remember Christ’s whispered plea, “Yet not what I will, but what You will.”

When the timer pings, I fold in spice and raisins, the scent of cinnamon filling the room like a hymn, warm and sweet on the back of my tongue. Cardamom and nutmeg join the chorus. I pinch off golf‑ball portions and roll them smooth, tucking the seams underneath just as I tuck my fears beneath promises I am learning to trust. The buns line up on the sheet pan, I brush them with egg white and milk, a tender anointing.

Into the oven they go; twenty short minutes that smell like Sunday hope arriving early. While they bake I mix a thick icing of powdered sugar, milk, and a single egg white until it gleams. The buns emerge bronzed and puffed, the very picture of abundance. Yet before I pipe the white cross on each crown, I let them cool completely. Even resurrection waits.

Finally, the icing flows, simple lines that speak volumes. Every cross reminds me that death is never the end of the story.

I sat the tray on the dinner table, as we eat, I feel Friday’s ache and Sunday’s joy sit together in my chest, neither canceling the other, both held by love.

Recipe

Purchase on BookShop

Hot Cross Buns from The Pioneer Woman (includes a helpful video) or pages 89-92 of The Pioneer Woman Cooks: A Year of Holidays.

May these spiced buns preach their quiet sermon at your table: sorrow noticed, hope promised, grace tasted.

Gracefully yours,

Food, faith & a little chaos—where spills happen, laughter is required, and grace is always on the menu. Let’s connect — visit my bio site. Affiliate links may be included, thanks for supporting my work (and my coffee habit).

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