Southern Comfort

There was a time in my life when I drank alcohol ... lots and lots of alcohol. I'm certainly not proud of those years, and I did some really stupid things when I was under the influence of booze. If there were such things as do-overs in life, I wouldn't have used alcohol to soothe whatever pain I was experiencing at the time. I had two favorite drinks back then, gin and orange juice, and an American liqueur aptly named Southern Comfort. I alternated between the two drinks, depending on how much cash I had ... Southern Comfort was more expensive, so it was often a "treat" to myself when I could afford it. It is a fruity, spicy liqueur with an alcohol content that makes it pack quite a punch. Speaking of do-overs ... I can't help but wonder sometimes if all the alcohol that once flowed through my liver and pancreas at least in part caused me to develop diabetes. Yep, I would take a do-over on that one if I could.

The week after my granddaughter Coraline was born, my son Matt began asking me to bring some food to him and Becca. And Matt being Matt, he was very specific in the food that he wanted ... my mom's chicken casserole (the one that's become famous in my hometown of Chattanooga and is sold at Country Place Restaurant as "Granny's Chicken Casserole"), cheesy potatoes and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The pleading voice of my son convinced me that he would indeed starve if I didn't make his favorite Mom dishes. I got up early on a Sunday morning and made the two-hour drive to deliver food, held C.J. for a couple of hours, and drove back home. Later that night, I got several texts from Matt telling me how delicious the food was. Funny, Matt and Becca have cooked those same food items many times themselves in the four and a half years since they've been married, but according to Matt, the dishes I brought to them on that Sunday were the greatest chicken casserole, cheesy potatoes and cookies he had ever tasted. Now I know full well there was nothing special about the food I took to Matt and Becca that day, nothing special at all. Those dishes were about comfort for Matt ... the comfort of his mom caring enough to ... well, just caring enough to bring him some good old Southern comfort food.

My nephew and his little family called me last weekend, and we talked for almost two hours. I can't remember when I've talked to anyone for more than a few minutes, much less for two hours. Listening to their sweet Southern accents and their laughter was comforting to me and eased the pain in my weary heart, even if it was only for a while. I miss my family back home a lot ... I miss the comfortable feeling I have when I'm in Tennessee. The new doctor I'm seeing talked a lot at my appointment last night about comfort, about acceptance, about love, about fear, about judgment and about pain. As I drove home, I tried to remember the last time my troubled soul was at peace ... I tried to remember the last time I was comfortable, truly comfortable, in my own skin. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were coursing down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt as I rolled the doctor's words around in my aching brain. And as I readied myself for bed, I thought about her final words last night telling me that I was going to make it, that it wasn't going to be easy or fast, but that I was going to make it ... I thought about how comforting her words were, about how for the first time in a very long time, I felt a miniscule glimmer of hope pulse in my soul.

So here's the thing ... God always knows what He's doing, especially when I don't see His plan or purpose. The truth is I know myself well enough to know that if I didn't have diabetes or have to take several medications that dictate that I can't consume any alcohol, I would have been very tempted during the roughness of the last year and a half to pop open a bottle of Southern Comfort and throw back a shot ... or 10 or 50. I would have sought comfort in food and drink ... I know myself, and I know that I would have fallen headfirst into that self-destructive pattern. I know myself pretty well ... but God knows me way better. He's my real Southern Comfort ... He's my real chicken casserole ... He's my real family.