Every morning, my 13-month old and I race to see who will make it from sleep to wakefulness first. She usually wins. When we're both awake, I will myself to stand up out of bed, and then I move over to beckon her to stand up in her play-yard, wiggling my fingers and smiling. If she's still sleepy, it'll take her a few moments, but when she smiles back I know she's ready. I pick her up, we move into the bathroom to look at one another in the mirror, and then we go to the refrigerator to fetch her morning milk. I put her in the gated living room and fetch her some Cheerios to nosh on, and sometimes I join her there and sit. A new element has entered our morning ritual when I join her. She fetches a fistful of Cheerios, toddles over to me, and extends her hand to my mouth, her eyes filled with expectation. The surprise of this gesture doesn't fade. I open my mouth. She places a Cheerio on my tongue, or on my teeth, and I use American Sign Language along with my voice to say "Thank you!" after I've crunched on my little wheaty gift. My daughter feeds me. My daughter, who hasn't yet experienced the waters of baptism, is Christ enfleshed. She feeds the hungry and breaks open a stony heart as she does it. I don't know much about my female ancestors, but I wonder if there were women like my daughter among them, women who were bold in doing priestly work, even if they could never take the title of priest. Will my daughter be a priest of Christ and feed those who hunger? Will she be someone more extraordinary and surprising than I can imagine?