A whirl of color brought me out of my daze—a dust devil—red, gold, and green—up into the dry air, and then gone in a flutter. From the porch bed, I focused my eyes to actually see for the first time in weeks; could it really be fall? How have I not noticed?
Fall in Alabama is always persnickety. We swelter, and then we shiver, but any pleasant in-between weather seems to elude us. Maybe it’s because we are usually so caught up in football that we just don’t have time to notice comfort—discomfort is much more noticeable, and it’s easier to talk about. We go from hotter ‘n blue blazes to freezin’ our tails off in a blink. September and October usually mean pumpkins and tank tops around our place—but not this year. This year was waiting rooms, fluorescent lights and sweatshirts, huddled together over prayer and tears. A quick check of my phone confirms it is November, and a new weight—the weight of the holidays—settles promptly into my shoulders. How will I do it without her? She was the glue. She was the heart of our family and what tied it all together around turkey and dressing, sweet potato casserole and so many desserts—the familiar chorus of, “I’m jus’ gonna take a little of each” echoing around the room.
Maybe we should just sit this one out—just skip Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. But no…that thought does not get far before I hear deep in my soul, “No, that will not do. Come to me and let me help you.” And so I pray. I cannot pray with words right now; instead it is just please…please, Lord, help me. When I open my eyes, the world looks a bit more in focus, and I decide to face it head on. Afterall, that is what Giggy would do—it is what she did in every trial, in every loss; this strong woman who stepped in to raise us would bow her head, dig in her feet, and push on, and so that is what I declare over this month. I will follow her example—I will carry on.
Quickly, while I still have the gumption, I text the family: “thanksgiving usual time but at my place im takin care of the food.”And then, “dont even think about skippin it she would want us all together.” I have two weeks. Two weeks to figure it all out and find a way back to joy.
I actually slept that night for the first time in I don’t know when, but it was a funny kind of sleep—heavy but somehow conscious. I found myself seeking rest through God instead of the kind of “escape from life sleep” I’d craved for so many months. All through the night, the thought just do what she did swirled in my mind between spans of tranquil slumber. I awoke with newness of mission and the sense that God had spoken. I was supposed to just do what she did. So, I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and headed over to her house to get the book.
I had not prepared myself for Giggy’s kitchen. As the screen door snapped behind me, I fell to my knees. I could see her in every corner. Grease poppin’ on the stove, dishtowel slung over her shoulder, and her greeting of, “Come on—jus’ get in here, girl!” Oh, God…help me! How many times have I held her hand at that table, smelling the delicious food that was all laid out, and wishing she could just pray faster—I’m going to starve before she’s done. But nothing rushed her time with the Lord. We would eat when she was finished. My instinct is to grab the book and run. I need to get out of here; this place just hurts too much. I can smell her. When I close my eyes, I can feel her hugs—hugs that threatened to hurt a little because they held so much love. I pray another, help me and go to the cupboard where Giggy’s book lives. Just do what she did.
The bulging, red gingham Better Homes and Gardens cookbook was held together by silver duct tape down the spine and a large rubber band around the middle. There were as many random sheets of paper protruding around the edges as there were original recipes in the book. It was an icon of my childhood, always there but taking center stage during the holidays. How in the world will I even find the recipes much less cook them? I opened the book to a random page and laughed when I saw, “Yuck!” written at the top. I flipped through a few more to find comments like, “Alright”— “Not worth it”— “Lucy’s favorite” and “Joe hates this.”
The index revealed several family favorites. I decided to snap pictures of the recipes and leave the book here where it belongs. I got quick pics of green bean casserole, pumpkin and pecan pie, as well as Giggy’s specialty—orange pineapple cake, but the most important recipes were nowhere to be found. The dressing and the turkey, if she wrote them down at all, they must be on one of the scraps of paper sticking out willy-nilly around the edges. This will take awhile. I would have to take Giggy’s book home.
The book seemed different in the light of my little kitchen. Its charm now broken—reverence dashed like a thrift store photo. Oh, how I want to do this later. Today has already been enough. But I hear once again, just do what she did, and so I open the book to the first added page. It is a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad, folded in half and stuck just behind the front cover. Tears spring to my eyes as I open it and read, “Dear Lord, How can I do this thing that you want me to do? I don’t know anything about kids…wouldn’t they be better off with a nice couple instead? Don’t they need a daddy? —But in all things, your will be done. I trust you. Romans 8:28.”
That night I received the gift of peace and the restoration of joy. I came to know the heart, the fear and the faith of the one who never failed me—the one who was tough as nails and tender to the core. Every scrap of paper told the story of my family—a testimony of faith and promises fulfilled. Every trial, every worry, every need was poured out to God. Because He was faithful, we learned to love. And then once again, a small, still voice reminds—just do what she did.