Manna from the Metal Tower

A shepherd cannot preach on an empty spirit, so I took my morning march straight into the kitchen territory. I climbed up the barstool rung by rung and reached the wide countertop, scouting for a righteous breakfast crumb. Right beside the kettle stood a towering chrome box, humming like a low Hammond organ and radiating holy warmth. I stepped up close, admiring my sharp lapels in the shiny metal, when—CLACK-PING! That silver contraption launched two golden slabs of toast sky-high with a deafening rattle! My eyes stretched wide as dinner plates, beloved. But did Pastor Darnell run? No, sir. I stood my ground, cleared my throat, and raised a steady hand to bless that toasted manna.