It was the early ‘60’s. Daddy had been appointed his first pastorate. Besides pastoring three small town churches, he also worked and went to school. My mom kept up with us kids and did whatever was necessary to survive. She was busy all the time. With cooking, cleaning, sewing, baking bread (6 loaves at a time), canning, herding kids, church functions, typing college papers, and everything in-between, she had no time to herself.
We lived in the church parsonage. I didn’t realize at the time that we were relatively poor. That’s why we had to eat oatmeal. It was a staple in our household, and Mama said it would stick to my ribs. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. Though I was small, I learned to cook there. I made mud pies in the back yard under the big pecan tree. My sister made her mud pies on the piano keys, and I think she got into trouble. I guess she didn’t want to practice that day.
The pastor’s family did benefit from parishioners sharing their produce in the summer, eggs or fresh meat at butchering time. Some of the former pastors may have been asked out to eat regularly, but our family didn’t get asked very often. Who wants to have the pastor’s family for Sunday dinner, especially when there are 6 kids, 3 of them rotten boys? We did get asked on occasion though. I loved going to the Brandenburg’s house. Mr. Brandenburg was blind. He ran the general store in town and knew almost everyone who came into the store by the sound of their feet. One day my dad walked in, and Mr. Brandenburg said, “Hello there, Preacher. Sounds like you put on a few pounds.” He kept an immaculate garden and tended the grape vines that draped over the arbor to the side of the house. Mrs. Brandenburg was so kind and a wonderful cook!
One Sunday morning Daddy said we were invited to dinner after church. I was excited because I thought the Brandenburg’s had asked us to come, but they didn’t.
Ms. Mary lived out of town. Her house was close to the road on a small hill. Across her driveway was the well. Her chickens were free range, and we had to be careful where we stepped. When we found out that we were going to her house the complaints began. Even Mama and Daddy didn’t want to go, but they graciously accepted her invitation. We were told to eat our meal and not to say a word. Ms. Mary was not the best cook. She put the food on the table and had us sit down to eat. She passed a plate and said, “Have a biscuit.” I had never seen a green biscuit before. Her biscuits were green, and I mean, they were green. They tasted as bad as they looked. She baked them in a kerosene stove and that’s exactly how the biscuits tasted – like kerosene.
As I look back through the years, I now see things in a different light. I see a woman who gave sacrificially to honor her pastor and his family. She was a simple country woman who had little to give, yet she gave the best she had. Somehow with that thought, even mud pies would taste a bit sweeter and green kerosene biscuits would taste more like manna.