Page 7 of A Taste of Grace

“That’s gracious.”

“For a gracious person.”

There it was again, praise that made me feel seen.

“Since you aren’t employed by the feds anymore, this could open new doors for you. I have a little bay window seat where you can read and write to clear your head when you need to.”

Uncle Keith was right. I needed a break and a healing space since I wasn’t in the headspace to seek full-time employment right away.

“Okay.” I spoke the words with caution.

Uncle Keith beamed as if I’d given him a winning lottery ticket.

“Perfect. Nita and I will take care of you. She’s the director of the women’s ministry at Haven of Hope and Blessings. Y’all will get along just fine.”

“I can’t wait.”

It took me three weeks to move to Farmerton, Georgia. It was the right mix of country with a dash of cosmopolitan. As expected, the slow pace forced me to reflect and focus on my long-term healing.

When I entered the grocery store or perused the quaint shops in the town square, people stared. Some of them asked my name while others lingered as I spoke with associates.

“You’re not from around these parts, are you?” A short lady with a flowing muumuu asked when I entered theWild and Freestationery store to purchase a couple of new journals. I remembered my manners and smiled.

“No, ma’am. I just moved here.”

No matter how nosy the woman was, the city girl in me wasn’t going to share all my business with a stranger.

“Welcome,” the woman said before moving toward the back of the store.

“Thank you.” I smiled again, determined not to let the natural nosiness of older Black folks in the South make me oversensitive or self-conscious.

The culture was different here, friendlier. I forced myself not to shut down at the people’s unexpected kindness. Partof my healing required that I be comfortable enough to share information about myself without being defensive. I tapped into the advice of my therapist, knowing putting myself out there was the only way I would build community.

I completed my purchases and drove back to the single-story dwelling. The two-bedroom, fully furnished house with modern amenities and old-school charm was the perfect place for me to rejuvenate. Although it was much smaller than most homes in the area, its coziness aligned with where I was in this season of life.

Since Mama was a hoarder, I committed to being a minimalist, or at least, I tried to be. Because of that, I sold most of my belongings before moving from DC, including almost all of my heavy winter coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, which were a staple for East Coast winter weather.

Later that night, as Uncle Keith and I ate the homemade meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes, and greens I cooked to thank him for his hospitality, I looked around the house, pleased with my design choices. Small houseplants and personal photos reminded me of better times in my life.

“I swear you cook just like your Mama.” Uncle Keith grinned and scooped a big creamy pile of potatoes on his fork and put them in his mouth, rolling his eyes and moaning like he was in ecstasy.

“Help yourself. Mama left me a box of recipes. I figured I needed to put them to use.”

Uncle Keith nodded and wiped brown gravy from his graying mustache with a paper towel.

“Didn’t I tell you this would be the perfect place for you?”

“You did.”

Uncle Keith puffed his medium-sized chest out and beamed.

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

I was serious about that. No one owed me anything, so a place to start my freelance business and reestablish myself as an entrepreneur was a gift that exceeded my expectations.

After dinner and coffee, we walked out to the small porch and eyed the neat property.

“Uncle Keith, people here are nosy. If they ask about me, could you skip the part about being in a psych hospital? I don’t want that to be my primary identity.”

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