Yes, I’m back. I think. My intention is to blog more often but you know what they say about good intentions. All I can say is that I will try. We are working on getting the blog and website up and running and being able to really formulate my pixel presence. But anyway…you are probably wondering about the title.
Well, here’s the deal.
I know for a fact that God loves me more than my momma loves me.
How do I know this you ask?
It was all because of the pickles.
See, my mom is an awesome cook. It’s also how she shows her love. She can fry up some chicken that will make your mouth water, bake biscuits like you wouldn’t believe, and not “whomp biscuits” but truly amazing homemade, from scratch with real buttermilk biscuits. And she also makes a deviled egg that always looked wonderful, but I just couldn’t sink my teeth into them. They had pickles in them. Chopped up pickles. Even though I am a proud, card-carrying lifetime member of GRITS (girls raised in the south), I can not deal with pickles, not on my cheeseburger, not fried, not on the side with my sandwich, and certainly not in my deviled eggs. My taste buds rebel and I just can’t partake of that southern taste sensation. But… mom ALWAYS put pickles in the eggs, even knowing that I didn’t like them, and telling me to “eat around them.” Do you know how difficult that is when they are chopped up? And they leave a taste in your mouth, and get pickle juice throughout the essence of the egg. NOT GOOD. So normally I would just pass on the eggs, even with their yellow mustard tinged goodness and light sprinkling of paprika. I just couldn’t swallow the pickles. For 41 years.
Niece #1 is born, and she grows up, loving her some deviled eggs with pickles. and then… niece #2 arrives. Recently she has discovered her affinity for deviled eggs, but low and behold, she DOES NOT like pickles.
So guess who now makes deviled eggs with and WITHOUT pickles. It took a 3-year-old DIVA to eridicate the plethora of pickles from the deviled eggs. My mother even places them in the middle of her southern egg platter, a place of honor for my 3-year-old niece. That’s just wrong. She clearly loves her granddaughter more than me, which I can understand, the diva is cuter and a lot smarter than I am. She has to be. It only took her a few weeks to accomplish what I had spent a lifetime failing miserably at.
So that’s how I know that God loves me more that my mother loves me. Scripture had always said so, but now I know it’s true.
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” Psalms 139:13
And I bet He will fix me eggs without pickles when I get to heaven. He made me not liking pickles so it’s not a bad thing. Grins.
I love you mom, but God loves me more.