Sausage and Biscuit with Tomato

My father used to take me to school every morning. It was our special time to connect and his time to share words or phrases of wisdom with me—many of them still play on repeat in my head. Two of his favorites (or perhaps my favorites), 

“God always knows who to send!”

“Be your task big or small, do it well or not at all!”

When I think back, I believe that he prepared what he would share on those rides to school. It always seemed perfectly timed. Even as a young child I knew that he was wise and intentional with his words. I pray that I inherited that trait from him. 

I was an inquisitive child and always had lots of questions for him. I can remember looking forward to asking him about all sorts of things and he was never annoyed with my process. He met my questions and questioning with a thoughtful patience. 

I attended an all-Black K-8 Catholic School. It was the same school that my brother and sister attended. (There is a 10-year difference between my brother and I and a 7-year difference between my sister and I.) So, there were several years that I attended alone after they left for high school. It was a special community where all the parents knew each other, knew where you lived, knew each other’s phone numbers and work numbers. I would say that it was a safe space to learn and develop but there were also Nuns with paddles, and they used them—but that’s entirely different story!  What I remember fondly were the mornings when we would leave home early for school and stop at a small little kitchen breakfast spot. My little legs would dangle from the edge of the backseat swinging so rhythmically from excitement and joy that my white knee socks would slide down my well-lotioned legs and fall in a slouch at my ankles. I was constantly trying to keep those socks up on my skinny legs. It was my first introduction to a breakfast sandwich that I still love today—sausage and biscuit with a slice of ripe tomato. My Daddy would buy a bag of them (it seemed like it was filled to the top but there were actually only four in the bag), they were small, and he and I would eat them right out of the brown paper bag that was covered with splotches of grease. He would always caution me not to get the grease on my uniform (coincidentally it was the same exact burgundy and grey plaid uniform pattern that Olivia currently wears to school) and I would always try my best, but my main priority was to eat them before we arrived at side entrance of the school. I would hop out of the car, run alongside the fence, climb three small steps and double skip to the door that also led to the Rectory; but not before stopping mid-way and glancing back to see if Daddy was still there—he always waited until I was inside before he pulled off. I still smile when I think about those mornings. I could count on this time with him, and I cherished it.

Daddy and I talked about these mornings on one of my visits home to Nashville. It must have been the year before he transitioned. I recall so many conversations that we had during that final year.  He was battling Congestive Heart Failure and I tried to make the trip as often as I could. It was so interesting that he remembered our morning ritual the same way that I did but neither of us could recall the name of the kitchen breakfast spot. I guess that it was merely a backdrop to what we both experienced. Our bond was always strong, nothing really compares to the love a daughter has for her father—this relationship sets the standard for some many relationships that follow.  His death left a tremendous void in my life, he was a crucial ingredient in my love sandwich and how I began to understand my role in my family. 

“…nothing really compares to the love a daughter has for her father…”

The approach of Father’s Day always brings such a mixed bag of emotions, I want to fully celebrate and honor my wonderful husband and my heart feels a particular ache from the absence of my father. I really struggled this year and couldn’t make my usual tribute to him on social media which left me feeling guilty.

I woke the next morning going through the motions of my routine. The kids asked me to go to pick up breakfast, they did not want cereal and I didn’t feel like cooking. So, I made my way to McDonalds and patiently waited in the drive-thru line. As I approached the speaker and instinctively ordered our usual breakfast favorites, I didn’t think much about it. But it hit me when the young man handed me the bag, the greasy bag, and there at the bottom was my favorite breakfast sandwich- sausage and biscuit with tomato. The biscuit was thicker than the one from my childhood memories (definitely not made from scratch), the sausage was not hand formed, and the tomato was not completely ripe or even firm, but the memory was just as sweet as those precious childhood moments with my Daddy. 

The imprint of small, consistent, intentional actions leave a lasting impact on those we touch. Thank you, Daddy for being intentional with your love and your words. I am doing my best to model that behavior with those that I love, with my precious Loved Ones, and am trying my best to do what every Daddy’s girl wants to do—Make her Daddy proud!