She buzzed around the table, a ladle in one hand and the big bowl in the other, inspecting everyone’s plate, except her own which sat cooling above her empty chair.

“Granny!” we exclaimed every few minutes. “Sit down and eat!”

But Granny just grunted, because clearly we didn’t understand the importance of maintaining the proper mashed potatoes to gravy ratio. She was right that we didn’t understand, but it wasn’t about the gravy. 

(Let me tell you, if there is anything I understand, it’s gravy.)

What we couldn’t see was the little girl, Fern, who once sat in the very same room wondering if she would eat, and fearing that tomorrow would be the day her mother would finally take her hand and walk her to the orphanage.

The church-like building was always a presence in Fern’s life, looming over her, high on its hill. As they went about their morning chores, and she looked up from the washing tub. At night, when she opened her eyes from her bedtime prayer.

It was always there.

She usually threw the blanket over her head and hugged her knees, but every now and then her eyes stayed on the colored rays of light coming from the lit stainglass. It was painfully beautiful, and Fern wondered about the children inside. Maybe they were praying too.

One Sunday morning, as they walked by the building on their way to church, Fern noticed a group of children playing outside. She watched, realizing how many of them looked her own age and seemed to be playing the same games she and Goldie often did.

Fern watched for a moment. One girl with a long blond braid and a tattered blue dress, caught her eye. Fern’s heart raced as their gazes locked and she realized the girl’s eyes matched her dress—except they were much brighter, and to Fern’s surprise, they were smiling.

Fern turned away quickly.

Her grip on Goldie’s hand tightened, as she caught up to her side. Goldie didn’t flinch, her steps became a defiant march past the building, and her big-sister look said It’s ok. Just keep walking.

Fern didn’t know it then but moments like that mattered—eyes meeting across the yard, wondering if she would be next—and settled into her bones. It was part of a past where she feared the future, but we only saw our dear Granny, and no one would leave her table hungry.

In fact, she had two tables. A formal table that seated eight, always dressed in lace tableclothes, which were changed out every time I plopped down my big box of crayons to make a new creation for Granny to hang on the fridge.

This was reserved for the fancier meals, such as our birthday dinners and holidays—usually when my parents would come too. 

Granny’s table for four sat on the far end of her galley kitchen, where we ate most of our meals with them. In the mornings, she often stood at the stove taking requests for eggs, serving Grandpa a perfect sunny-side up, scrambling mine with a splash of milk, and I don’t remember how Ben took his, but you can bet Granny knew.

She also fed countless neighborhood kids at there, as we came in from days at the creek or from playing ball in the field behind their house. 

That kitchen table fearlessly faced the aging building that still sat high up on the hill. It now sat empty, just a shell of the threat that once ruled over Granny.

I can’t say if she put the table there on purpose, right up against the window with a victorious push—but to me, the grace of God shined bright through the glass.

Because Granny’s story was never out of His hands, He knew her path led straight down that alley kitchen where she made sure her own family never hungered or feared.

There was security at Granny’s table—an altar where she placed her love.

And maybe that’s why, all these years later, when I think of her kitchen, I don’t remember the fear that followed her childhood. I remember the peace she created there.

I remember the clatter of dishes, the smell of breakfast, and the way she hovered over every plate as if she were guarding something sacred.

I didn’t know her whole story then. But I felt the safety she built from it. I remember the faith that shined through it.

And this is only the beginning of it—because somewhere between that hilltop building, a brave big sister, and a little girl named Fern, there’s more to tell.

So much more.

Join me next week to continue Fern’s story on The West Bird Story.