When I landed in the United States on the morning of November 19, 2011, there is one thought that stuck in my mind: God is constant. I had arrived in a foreign country at 5 a.m. and found myself surrounded by so much unfamiliarity. I had nothing but a bag full of winter clothes, a piece of paper with an address, and some kind of nervous excitement.

I was desperate for something to hold onto, something to affirm that I was going to be OK. I had made an American friend along the way, and when we got to the airport, I kept looking at her for reassurance. Her smile put my heart at ease.

I had my first encounter with God in the face of a stranger-turned-friend. She quickly filled me in on the procedures and showed me which way to the visitors’ queue. Right there I thanked God for such precision and timeliness in having me meet this lovely girl at that moment.

It seems fitting to begin a column in Manna Express on bread. Not the unleavened kind. The kind made with yeast. And not bread exactly but rolls--hot, yeasty puffs of air surrounded by buttery crust. I know what you might be thinking: Who has time for yeast rolls from scratch with all that kneading and rising and punching down and rising again? Well, you do.

With modern techniques, it can be easier than you think. My 12-year-old grandson has been making yeast rolls by himself since he was 10. So if he can, you can! I’m going to give you a few tips for taking the mystery out of the process. But first let me tell you how I stumbled into bread-baking.

It is time for the church in Africa—and throughout the world—to address abuse and injustice against women and girls.

After spending time in January in the city of Masindi, Uganda, I traveled to Uganda’s capital, Kampala, to address a women’s conference. After my first session a woman named Florence grabbed me and began to tell her painful story.

She had given birth to five girls during her marriage. But when her girls were small, her husband decided to leave Florence because she had not produced a son. He blamed her (I guess he didn’t know a man’s sperm determines the gender of a child), and he said she had shamed him by having only girls. He sold the family house, evicted his wife and daughters, and gave them no money for food or school fees. Then he married again and started a new family. He got two boys and another daughter out of the deal.

A touch of family drama. A dash of fight sequences. A pinch of fantasy. Mixing them all together would seem like mixing oil, water, and sand, but instead we get an aesthetic, personal approach to independent film that only Ink can bring. With excellent lighting, script, and acting, Ink dazzles the eye with dream-like cinematography, touches the heart with authentic characters, and provokes the soul with spiritual themes fashioned for an audience that appreciates film as art with a purpose.

As humans fall asleep they are visited either by Storytellers, who make dreams to the slumbering world, or Incubi, the givers of nightmares. As the two sides travel around giving out their dreams, a mysterious deformed creature known as Ink abducts the soul of a young girl, Emma, in hopes of bartering her for a place among the Incubi. The Storytellers join with the Pathfinder, who has the power to feel the beat of the world and manipulate it, to save Emma before her soul is lost forever.