Jesus and Butter

Today we celebrated the life of my Grandaddy's last sister.  The end of an era. And it has made me realize something. The generation of jello mold salads and homemade pecan pie is slowly, sadly dwindling. And that's devastating. 

When my Granddaddy was alive everyone sat at the table Sunday afternoon and ate roast and carrots. And no cell phones existed. People had real conversation and real butter. And they prayed. 

Looking around at the amazing lunch provided for us by the sweet ladies at the same church that has raised my grandparents, survived multiple tornadoes, and given heartfelt services for so many families, it is an overwhelming emotion. 

No where else but a tiny town in Oklahoma will you find Jesus, potato casserole, and four homemade pecan pies in one setting  

What will we do when this entire generation goes to visit the Good Lord? Who will make the ambrosia jello salad? The Bible thumping lectures? Tell the amazing stories of rose gardens, eating your pet duck (because 'they were farm animals), and how back then people paid cash for their cars? And houses?

I can only imagine what people will say about me when I go. Will I live to be 97 like my grandparents? Will someone bring pie? Please make sure someone buries me with bacon. 

Amen yall. 

XOXO Summer