I was enjoying a slice of pie, skimming the headlines in the paper, when my mouth fell open in astonishment:
The headline was followed by data, surveys, and supporting material. There was no disputing the fact: We who love the Lord love food.
Duh. I could have saved them thousands in research money if they had just asked me. Every good Baptist knows that pie and piety go hand in hand. I’m convinced that fellowship and food begin with the same first letter through Divine design.
My childhood was peppered with church dinners and Sunday afternoon church picnics.
An excitement arrived at church along with the covered dishes. Everyone had a specialty and we knew the menu by heart. Fried chicken. Baked chicken. Ham and beans. Green beans. Three-bean salad. Potato salad. Lumpy mashed potatoes in great big pots.
Toward the end of the sermon, women all over the auditorium stood. They gathered up their giant purses and worn Bibles, pressed the wrinkles from their dresses with practiced hands, and ceremoniously headed toward the basement kitchen.
Before long the aroma of dinner wafted throughout the church like a breathy prayer.
The invitation was sung just a little faster, it seemed, and the AMEN at the end of the closing prayer acted as a starting pistol in the race to the fellowship hall.
The long tables downstairs were set end to end and covered with white tissue paper that came off giant rolls.
Women strutted self-assuredly from task to task; slicing tomatoes, making coffee, carrying casserole dishes to the tables. Each woman had her own style of working. The cheery new mother flitted anxiously from job to job, eager to have her help accepted by the more seasoned women.
The slower-paced grandmas, who had bustled around the same church kitchen for decades, delegated duties with military sternness. They could serve up a frown more caustic than the worst tasting vegetable; there was no way to sneak a lick or fingertip of food when the grandmas were around.
When it seemed the tables would collapse from the weight of Pyrex and Crockpots, the preacher would finally acknowledge the starving stares sent his way.
“Let’s pray,” echoed from his lips and we sighed happily.
The preacher was always first in the buffet-style line, then the old folks; walkers and canes clattered along the concrete floor like teeth chattering. Moms and babies lined up next, balancing plates in one hand and diapered bottoms in the other in a deftness that could only be learned in church supper lines.
Finally, children who could feed themselves were allowed to fix a plate. We scanned the feast to see what was left and plotted our strategy as to which pot we’d scoop into first.
Vegetables we hated blurred in our vision; we scurried toward chicken drumsticks and hot dogs and red, fruit-filled Jell-O that adults insisted was “salad”.
The air around us echoed with chatter, chewing and Christianity. Recipes were revealed, sometimes grudgingly, but never rudely. Praises flowed from practiced lips as forks and knives clinked out coded approval.
Food and love filled the soul, in that building of Bibles and revivals. Loaves and fishes, manna from Heaven, the feast given for the prodigal son’s return—it was all there, just as the sermons said. We found comfort and acceptance in “breaking bread” with our church family.
And we broke a lot of it.
Our love of the Lord, would be forever connected to the warmth of the church suppers that showed His love made visible.
And, yes. Our waistlines expanded. Just like the research discovered.
I licked the last crumbs of piecrust from my fork and walked to the sink with my plate and hummed a verse of “Do Lord” as I began washing dishes.
Robin Garrison Leach is a freelance writer and columnist from Quincy, Illinois.”Robin Writes” is published in numerous Missouri and Illinois newspapers. Contact her at robingarrisonleach@gmail.com.
June 24, 2021 at 07:33AM
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Pie and piety go hand in hand - Alton Telegraph
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