The Last Night I Slept at Granny's

A sleepless night under my Granny's tin roof became more than a memory—it became a lesson on life, purpose, and the quiet ways we are prepared to serve others.

A battle raged. The sleep refused to come and I was in rebellion, keeping my eyes slammed shut in defiance. The sun had long since set, my body was weary after a long drive, sleeping in a bed that was not my own, and an early morning alarm stared me down like a villain in a comic book.

A superhero swooped in, not with a cape, but instead—a weather pattern. Rain began to fall, constant and long, the sound echoing off the tin roof like a soundtrack. Shortly thereafter, cue the credits; I was out like a light.

It sounds nondescript, and yet this memory comes back into my mind on a semi-constant basis.

It was the last night I ever slept in my Granny’s home.

Work had brought me to South Georgia to provide training for a local nonprofit that had received funding but could not make heads or tails of the programmatic, financial, and compliance components. They were going to relinquish the funding, and I knew being from that area that there was no other group that would have been able to take it over in their stead. Six figures of renewable annual funding would disappear from a rural swath of the state already starved of resources. I immediately volunteered to make the trek from Atlanta to South Georgia and deliver a training I developed.

My hotel for the overnight stay was Granny.

She was curious about the work that brought me there, and I filled her in on the details. Much of what Southerners say is in what we don’t say. We use a plethora of euphemisms, but the true meaning is mired in context, body language, and social cues. She listened along, and when she smiled and nodded in a certain way, that was her stamp of approval—more so than even the words that she spoke.

The depth of poverty, lack of access to basic necessities and services, compounded with generations of being neglected and overlooked by federal and state authorities shaped the established status quo for this region. And yet, it is a place of unbridled beauty, neighbors who step in to help each other, and a sense of community that has remained steady and true through administrations, natural disasters, historical events, and personal tragedies. Dignity amongst hardship, more than anything else, defines this region.

No one knows that definition better than someone born of this oft forgotten, unmapped portion of the state.

Later that evening, after our conversation settled but before retiring to bed, Granny asked if I wanted breakfast in the morning and I told her no, just some coffee would do. I had to get up early and make my way into town. It was then that my battle with sleep commenced.

The true value of memories comes with time, distilling messages not readily apparent in the moment. This particular one became a way of understanding purpose.

Weather is a science, but the poetic, sentimental part of me saw the rain that night as a spiritual gift—a blanket of peace to allow me to do my part to help those who do not have a voice. Who are not invited into the room. Whose future is determined by a set of choices others make on their behalf.

I woke up in the morning and found my way to the kitchen where Granny was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee ready. As was a veritable breakfast buffet, with a plate of bacon stacked so tall she could have fed half the county. Food is how we show love. No one goes hungry, and even if you say no, you are still getting fed. My favorite thing she would cook was always collard greens, and even though she would hem and haw about making them, sure enough, they’d appear at the dinner table in the largest pot she owned.

She lived years after that day, but that was the last night I slept in her home. Poignant. I relived that night many times over; the feeling of trying to sleep, and the complete calm that enveloped me once the tin roof started to ping with raindrops. The land speaks but you must know how to translate.

Our individual journeys include seasons wherein we do not understand why our life takes a certain path. Or why we may be in company that is unpleasant, unrewarding, or unyielding.

You are the voice. You are the one who is able to be in the room. You are the one able to speak words that may not move mountains, but even water can cut through rocks with time.

Choose gratitude when you are in those rooms. Center yourself. When your words and actions are used to lift up others and not prove your own importance, your voice will not falter.

That nonprofit only needed someone willing to spend time and answer questions. They kept the funding and have had it renewed every year since, continuing the hard yet intensely rewarding work to assist hundreds of people since that day.

After Granny passed away, there were multiple bags of collard greens in her deep freezer. Months later, when the time came for me to eat the last bag, tears fell steadily into my plate.

Love can be giving your voice, sharing your talents, or using your place in the room for others. And sometimes, love can be a bag of collard greens waiting in the freezer.