Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Enter (02/27/06)
TITLE: There's Only One Way
By Pamela Bridgeman
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For a season my parents were separated even though Daddy was an Evangelist with a miracle anointing. There are bountiful stories about my daddy going into hospital rooms, laying hands on the infirmed and them walking out. During the time that my parents’ marriage was estranged, we children lived with Mama.
Mama was brilliant, an educated, skilled, and trained black woman. She was one of those stereotypical black women, who could bring home the bacon… You get the picture. Still money was scarce; so Mama would put together creative “casseroles” for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Often the ingredients were government cheese, powdered eggs, milk and spam. Or the scraps from the lunchroom that my maternal Grandpa brought home from the elementary school where he was a janitor. This was but one of his varied means of keeping food on his family’s table and clothes on our backs.
Sometimes when I would scrunch my nose up at the special concoction Mama had served up on my plate, she would say, “Aw, Ms. Nice Nasty. Eat your food; it’s all going down the same way. And when it goes down, it's coming out the same way that it comes out everyone else.”
Even though I am a social worker and a compassionate care minister that clings fervently to ethics and integrity, every time I think about what Mama always used to say, I repent of my judgments. Every time I remember my history of being “Ms. Nice Nasty”, I embrace godly sorrow for the judgments I pass concerning folk who are different than me.
Recently, I became self-employed and, let’s just say my cupboard isn’t exactly full. So today, in honor of Mama, I created a casserole.
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