The Remnant and The Prodigal

Gravy, Grief, and legacy.

It started with gravy.

Well, a conversation about frustrations with gravy, to be exact.

Tripper called me, sounding a little defeated. Said he’d been trying to make his gravy come out like mine, but it never did. It was either too thin, too thick, or tasted like metal. “It just doesn’t have any flavor,” he said — and that set something off in me. Because gravy? Gravy is more than flour and grease. It’s memory. It’s warmth. It’s presence. It’s legacy you can sop with a biscuit.

I remember telling my Granny something similar years ago — not about gravy, but about cornbread dressing. I told her mine never came out like hers, even though I stood elbow to elbow with her every Thanksgiving and Christmas, trying to absorb every trick she didn’t write down. I’d follow her method to the letter, and still — it fell flat somehow.

One year, being half-goofy and half-serious, I hollered from the kitchen, “Granny, I need you to come stick your finger in this dressing. I swear that’s the magic trick.”

And so she did — shook her head and said, “Good gracious, girl,” poked her little finger in the middle like she was entertaining one of my new superstitions, and went right back to what she was doing without missing a beat. And wouldn’t you know it, that year’s dressing was the best I ever made.

After that, it became a tradition. I wouldn’t bake the dressing until Granny came and stuck her finger in it. She’d giggle, I’d act like I was serious — but maybe I was.

The first Thanksgiving after she passed, I stood in my kitchen with a lump in my throat and tears in my cornbread. Because there are some ingredients you can’t buy or measure.

Recipes are more than steps.

They’re love and heart and fingers.

And when those hands are gone, you feel it deep.

So when Tripper called me about his gravy frustrations, I did what any Southern mama would do — I added the missing piece to his puzzle: a cast iron skillet. Hauled my mama-tail to town like I was on a mission from the Lord and bought him a good one.

But the second I handed it to him — I knew. It wasn’t really about the skillet. I wasn’t just giving him a pan and a recipe. I was passing a mantle. Not the whole thing — not yet. I’m still here. Still got stuff to do, things I need healed, and stories left to write.

But that moment? That was a sign. A tender little handoff that whispered, “What I don’t finish, son… you will.”

And I believe that.

Deep down, I believe God finishes what He starts — even if the chapters get picked up by the next generation.

Even if I came late to the table. Even if I feel like I’m running out of time. The line doesn’t end with me.

Tripper is the remnant.

He’s steady. Tender-hearted. The old soul who once said, “Mama, all I want when you’re gone are your salt and pepper shakers.” We’ve always been like peas and carrots, me and him — same heart, same humor, same instinct to hang on to what matters.

Now let me tell you — these things are nothing special to look at. Short, squatty glass jars with rounded metal tops. The salt shaker has a dent where I dropped it twenty years ago. You can probably find the exact pair on Amazon for $8.99.

But Tripper doesn’t want a fresh set. He wants mine. He wants what I’ve handled for years. He wants the story, not the substitute.

There was a moment — years ago now — when Chace’s fiancé at the time was hanging out with me at the house. She made a sort of joking comment about a few things she liked, said something like, “I better be the one to get that someday.”

It wasn’t cruel. Probably not even intentional — just one of those comments that’s half-kidding, half-serious. But it stuck with me. Not because of the stuff she pointed at — but because it showed me something: Some folks chase the shine. Some folks chase the story.

And I ache. Because Chase is missing out on a kind of blessing you don’t get through PayPal or Pottery Barn. Not just things — but the slow-woven wisdom and experience of a mama who loves him and would give him every piece of herself if she thought he’d truly hold it. But he’s not in that place right now. And maybe he doesn’t even see what’s being lost.

But I also know this:

The prodigal story ends in glory. And so does the remnant's.

Yesterday, as I sat in a parking lot waiting for Otis to get his hair done, I got hit with that ache again — the one that shows up when you least expect it. I was tired, tender-hearted, and thinking too much. I pulled up the app to pay for Otis’s appointment and started keying in my credit card number as I have a hundred times before. That’s when I saw something that had never hit me before.

Expiration date: 8/28.

Romans 8:28. Probably my favorite and most quoted verse in the Bible. And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.

And just as that verse landed in my chest, the radio shifted — Crowder came on. Then, Third Day. More memories flooded me.

Chace loved Third Day. Got saved in the backseat of the car listening to one of their songs. Just a little boy with an open, hungry heart and a big Jesus, having a conversation while I drove. He told me about it after we got home with tears streaming down his little face.

And here I was today, grown and grieving a little, but reminded — that root is still there. And roots? Roots don’t forget how to reach for water. Even buried. Even dry. Even tangled under things that shouldn’t have grown there — they remember.

And this grief I’ve been carrying like a second skin? It has an end date. This season will expire. And when it does, I’m confident I’ll look back and see what God was doing all along.

So yes… this is the story of The Remnant and The Prodigal. Of salt shakers and sons. Of cast iron and callings. Of peas and carrots, and the grief that softens but doesn’t steal. Of what I couldn’t finish… and the young man who will. The one who’ll make gravy for his family one day and pass the dented salt shaker to his child with reverence. And say: “Your grandma gave this to me. She didn’t just season food… she seasoned people.”