God is like that sometimes

I was reading the last few chapters of the book by Rick Bragg in which he writes about his father and his father's family, trying to exemplify the man who was a destructive force in his life. His father had been in and out of his life when he was young and had ultimately abandoned his family. In the book he details how his father fell in love with his mother and then went in and out of her life, causing as much damage when he was there as when he was away.

The book ends as his father dies of tuberculosis and his older brother is sent to prison in Atmore, Alabama. As Bragg's life sweetens with his marriage to his wife and his growing relationship with his stepson, he and his mother try to get his older brother out of the penitentiary. Meanwhile, he buys his mother a house out in the country with the money from his first book. Later, his brother is released and comes to live with his mother. Between the two of them, the two create a massive garden and plant flowers and vegetables and fruit. In Bragg's eyes, the plants are amazing.

His description is skillful and oozes with the love and pride he has in his mother and brother. I couldn't help it; my thoughts went back to the farm and the huge garden my grandfather always planted. There were tons of vegetables and rows of gardenias and other flowers. Against the fence between the drive and the garden were concord grape vines, which were sour when we picked them and ate them.

Out in the low spots in the field was a bog where the blackberries grew. In the late summer, grandmommie would lead us out there to pick the berries amongst the stickers, these being wild blackberries. Later, my grandmother would make the most amazing blackberry cobbler, with a buttery crust and the sugar mixed with the tart blackberries. Served with vanilla ice cream, it might be the only sweet treat of Summer which overcame watermelon. I wish I could have some of that again.

When we used to visit Grandmommie in the Summer, we got to enjoy all the great things of the country in Summertime. The heat and humidity, cut in half by the coolness under the oaks which spread out around the front yard. Sitting out under those trees in the darkening evening, listening to the Bob Whites calling us from above. Sitting there, talking softly, until the day's light was gone and we headed back inside to take baths and get ready for another morning which started in the darkness, with my Grandfather smoking a cigarette in the yellow chair, drinking coffee and listening to the radio as the sun sneaked up on us from the behind the smoke house and the coal house.

The greatest mystery of my growing up was the wonder of Grandmommie's biscuits. They never came out the way she wanted. They were flat and buttery and hot and didn't need a thing, but she always apologized. Always.

The mystery of this is what she didn't do which made them come out wrong, but perfect. Life is a struggle most of the time. We make a lot of mistakes. A client once told me that we all make mistakes. The key is learning from them. Perhaps in the case of Grandmommie's biscuits, the lesson is sometimes God allows our mistakes to bear sublime consequences which are much better than our intentions.

God is like that sometimes.