This morning started like most good mornings do.

Prayer first. Quiet gratitude before motion.

Then coffee. The soft clatter of pans warming on the stove. My wife moving through the kitchen with the rhythm of someone who already knows what the day requires.

I kissed her while she was getting ready for church, and somewhere between breakfast and tying her shoes she said it casually:

“It’s Aunt Sadie’s birthday again. We’re going to need pulled pork.”

And just like that, I was back in the fellowship hall from last year, watching her godfather pour my homemade barbecue sauce all over his salad.

He took a bite, nodded thoughtfully, and said, “This is a wonderful salad dressing. Reminds me of that pulled pork.”

My wife laughed. “That’s because it is the barbecue sauce for the pulled pork.”

He shrugged. “Well ... it still works.”

That’s how memory works. It doesn’t return in chapters. It returns in flavor.

And once that moment surfaced, the rest of the night came back with it.

I don’t attend her church every Sunday. It’s her church. I show up when I feel led. When it fits. But when there’s a dinner, I’m there. I’m the barbecue guy. Supporting cast. Smoke and seasoning in the background.

People like my pulled pork.My wife likes my pulled pork.

That’s enough for me.

The church itself is small. Older. Still standing, but you can feel the years in the walls. The youth don’t fill the pews the way they once did. The energy isn’t what it used to be. Some of the older set hold onto their titles tightly — not out of malice, just out of memory. Time changes things.

But when there’s a dinner, the place wakes up for a few hours. The neighborhood drifts in. Laughter returns. Plates stack high. It feels alive again, even if only briefly.