I am a foodie.
It’s my love language.
Food teaches.
Food preaches.
There is a sacredness in preparing and eating together.
It helps me write and create.
So it makes sense that this year spoke to me through food and inspired this blog..
I experienced a year with a little bit of everything.
Some days simmered slowly.
Some boiled over.
Some surprised me with sweetness I didn’t know I needed.
God met me in every flavor.
A Gumbo Year Can Begin Anytime
Gumbo doesn’t require a calendar reset.
It can be made at any time.
You don’t wait for January 1—you make it when the weather shifts, when people gather, when hunger announces itself.
This past year reminded me that life works the same way.
We begin again when we need to, not waiting for the perfect date.
I learned from observing a friend as she prepares her gumbo.
Gumbo starts with a roux—and a roux cannot be rushed.
You have to stay at the stove, stirring, paying attention, resisting the urge to hurry the process.
Walk away too long and it burns.
Rush it and it never becomes what it’s meant to be.
This year required that kind of presence from me.
Staying.
Watching.
Choosing not to abandon the pot when the heat rose.
It asks for your presence, not perfection.
Not everything goes into the pot at the same time.
Some ingredients have to wait until the base is ready.
Some arrive unexpectedly.
Discernment matters.
Wisdom isn’t just knowing what belongs in life—it’s knowing when.
Everything doesn’t have to be absorbed to belong.
The best part of gumbo is the joy of how it nourishes my body, spirit and soul, especially when shared with loved ones.
And there was joy—real joy.
It showed up in books that held me, in travel, and in creative opportunities that called me back to myself.
Joy gathered me in rooms filled with women in ministry, storytellers who fed me, surrounded me with thousands of sorority sisters, and made space for a sacred weekend—time set apart with friends I have walked with for more than forty years.
We laughed, remembered, rested, and bore witness to one another’s lives.
These were not side dishes; they were nourishment.
Even in a gumbo year, delight belongs in the pot.
I also learned that gumbo tastes better the next day.
Time deepens flavor.
Meaning often arrives later.
Some understanding comes only after the pot has been taken off the stove and allowed to rest.
Time, it turns out, is not wasted—it is a seasoning
So it makes sense that this past year spoke to me through observing a friend making gumbo.
Keep cooking.
Keep tending what was entrusted to me.
This gumbo year didn’t ask me for certainty.
It asked me for presence.
For patience.
For the courage to stay with what was still becoming.
And perhaps your life asks the same of you.
And that is delicious.
Blessings,
Sheila P Spencer
