Messages come to us in those moments when we allow ourselves to be quiet enough to listen. The act of making a simple bowl of grits and eggs, something I haven’t done in years, this morning was the method of delivery.
For those unfortunate souls who didn’t grow up eatin’ yella grits, the “yella” comes from the broken yolk of a soft fried egg mixed all up in a bowl of yummy hot grits. It was the mixin’ of the eggs into the grits this morning – in that moment, I saw my hands expertly holding the fork and knife as they moved back and forth in a crossway pattern through my eggs and grits and my heart softened. It was my Daddy who taught me to do this. As a very small girl, I remember asking him, “Daddy, mix my grits?” Most likely he never knew the admiration I held for his ability to do this so quickly, the eggs and grits within minutes blended to perfection. He was usually otherwise engaged and the act of mixing grits was done as an aside.
It’s hard for me to remember a lot of my childhood. The shadows often conceal the light and I choose to avoid rather than reveal. So when a memory like yella grits washes over me, I am grateful. My heart softens and I let go a little more of the fear, the guilt, and the regret. Our relationship wasn’t what others thought it should have been. Most of the time it wasn’t what either of us thought it should have been either. But it was what it was. It was ours.
Standing at my counter this morning, I felt the love my Daddy had such a hard time showing when I was little and I smiled, grateful for the path that is my life.