Every Wednesday morning, Sheldon Kriegel strengthens a family with the power of his hands.

It is a father’s gift, a loving ritual in a long life sustained by them.

Kriegel, 90, gathers flour and eggs and salt and water and sugar and oil and yeast. He mixes them into a dough, waits for it to rise, divides it, braids it, and carefully tucks under the ends. He brushes egg white over the two loaves, and gently daubs sesame seeds on their peaks.

When the challah is cooked—shiny, sweet, and chewy—he puts the bread in a box decorated with animal stickers. “Mmm,” they always say at the post office. “Still warm.”

Two days later, it arrives in White Plains, N.Y., where Sheldon’s son David lives. David’s kids Jack and Nili, both 5, and Maya, 4, are always delighted to find their Napi’s challah on the doorstep, just in time for Shabbat dinner. His creations—hundreds of loaves—have come through every Friday for years.

For Sheldon and for them, the bread gives, as he describes it, “shape and form and warmth” to life.

Only twice have David and his clan been disappointed: Once when their cousins next door thought they were away and snagged the challah, and once when Jack opened the door to find a squirrel gobbling the golden treasure.