Too much chicken gumbo

 I admit it. I don’t like to cook. I did okay when the kids were at home, but now that I’m retired, I really would rather leave this part of life behind. But I live in an independent-living apartment here in the retirement community, complete with a kitchen. We eat most of our meals in the apartment. That means a certain amount of cooking. Hal fixes breakfast, while I try to figure out lunch and dinner. We go downstairs to eat in the community dining room as often as we can.

One way I cope with cooking here at home is every few weeks to fix a big pot of soup or a large casserole, then freeze portions for future meals. A few weeks ago, I cooked a large pot of modified chicken gumbo soup (modified because I substitute corn for okra, not being an okra fan). It’s pretty tasty. I fixed enough for six meals, which is probably two too many, but the freezer looks well stocked.

The following night I dreamed I made a kettle-full of chicken gumbo, enough for 20 people. It was for a church potluck. After I lugged the kettle to the church, I discovered the event had been cancelled. So there I was, with ten gumbo meals. Did I want all that? No. In fact I totally lost my taste for chicken gumbo. So much so that I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth.

The dream was not really about chicken gumbo. And it was not a message from God. My sub-conscious was drudging up a fear it thought I should face. Dreams do that sometimes. This one was about me as a writer.

I’ve been writing magazine columns and blogs for over 40 years. I’ve generally been well received. When I read back over all this stuff (and there’s a lot!), I actually like most of it and don’t want it to die. So I got an idea. I would gather the best reflections and stories and see if I could publish a collection.

After the initial enthusiasm for the project, my inner hidden critic sat up and smirked. “You were younger when you wrote all that,” he reminded me. “Your fans are all dead. No one knows you now. No living person could possibly be interested. Besides, you’re not that great a writer.”

The critic even gets biblical, quoting Ecclesiastes: “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh” (12:12). “Give it up, Nancy,” he continues to goad. “Be retired. Really retired. Read books. Watch movies. Just sit there and relax.” These are genuine temptations.

What the dream tells me is that I suspect (fear) that I’ve made too much literary chicken gumbo. And left in the okra.

Self-doubt is a temptation for many writers and artists, not just us introverts. I’ve dealt with this all my life.

But it’s not just writers, artists, and musicians. I think it’s a common temptation of the elderly to look back and doubt the value of their life’s work. Perhaps not all the time, and probably not all older people struggle with this. But I’ve observed that it’s fairly common. “Was it all worth it? What have I actually done with my life? Am I leaving behind a legacy worth passing on? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone?”

Some observations: 1) Becoming a mature person is a life-time prospect; it doesn’t stop when we become 70. 2) Part of maturity is coming to terms with our past, knowing that in spite of the inevitable mistakes and unmet goals, God can take what we’ve offered to him and bless it for his ongoing purposes. 3) Our ultimate value comes from being God’s beloved sons and daughters. 4) Our legacy is in God’s hands.

I’m writing to myself here, reminding myself of what I thought I already knew. I need a lot of reminders. 

Even after I’m dead. Hal and I arranged to have this engraved on our memorial plaque: “May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish, Thou, the work of our hands” (Psalm 92:17).

I think I’ll go ahead and publish that collection of past reflections and stories.

In the meantime, I’d be glad to share my chicken gumbo with you. I’ve lots of it.