My love of strawberry jam began in Lucille’s kitchen.
I wish I could share with you the intricacies of our friendship, how God had the kindness to mold a mentor out of my Sunday School teacher. There was a season in my life where I would sit at her kitchen table every Sunday morning, drinking in her wisdom with my hot chocolate.
And without fail, my breakfast included toast with the most delicious strawberry jam I’d ever tasted. I bragged about it so much that my family wanted to try it, so I asked Lucille where she bought her jar of sugary goodness.
I remember her pointing over her shoulder, to the yard beyond her kitchen window. She told me she grew her own strawberries and when the time was right, her family came over and made strawberry jam with her. She smiled warmly, the kind of smile that creases your face when the memories are sweet.
As a young teen with an old soul, I was fascinated by the idea that Lucille’s homemade strawberry jam was precious. It was likely a family recipe, which meant it was off limits to the nerdy girl trying to catch a ride to Sunday School after pathetic attempts at learning the piano.
I knew I wasn’t special enough to have the recipe for the good stuff . . .
I’m so honored to be sharing over at (in)courage today! You can join me over there to read the rest of this post.
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