Even the Crawfish Know

Even the Crawfish Know

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

You ever notice how the Creator has a way of pulling back the curtains on life like He’s running the French Quarter at Mardi Gras? One minute everybody’s smiling in your face, handing you beads and pretending they’re your best friend, and the next bam! the storm hits, and all you’ve got left is the real ones who know how to pray instead of just party. The Creator don’t waste time with fake friends. He’ll let the fire burn hot enough to melt the masks clean off. And that, my friend, is when you finally see who’s standing for you and who was only hanging around for your red beans and rice.

I grew up learning this kind of truth not in some fancy seminary but in my grandmother’s kitchen. Lord, that woman had a voice. She’d be standing there with a sheephead fish flopping on the counter, knife in hand, apron smeared, and out her mouth came, “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty.” And it wasn’t no performance either. She sang like the heavens were listening, like the grease popping in the skillet was her choir. That’s how I learned faith. Not neat and polished. Not dressed up for church photos. Faith was scales under your fingernails and praises pouring out your lips anyway.

Now let’s be real. We humans, we got a bad habit of trying to bargain with the Creator like He’s some shop owner on Canal Street. “Alright now, Lord, heal me first, fix my mess first, and then I’ll believe.” We want the blessing upfront and faith on layaway. But the Creator doesn’t play that game. He’s not selling knockoff purses. He says believe first, trust first, step out first. And whew, does that rub our egos the wrong way. Because our egos love facts. We want proof. We want evidence. But the Creator? He don’t run on our spreadsheets. He runs on His word.

And the moment you start leaning into faith, that snake the low-frequency whisperer slides in smooth as butter. He’s got lines better than a hustler on Bourbon Street. “If you’re so blessed, why’s your wallet empty? If  The Creator favors you, why are you sick? If He loves you, why’d that heartbreak gut you like a catfish?” He makes doubt sound like logic, like common sense. He holds out an apple, tells you it’s sweet, organic, picked just for you. But what he don’t tell you is that bite will rot your hope from the inside out.

That’s where my grandmother would slam the brakes. She’d slap the towel over her shoulder, plant her hands on her hips, and say, “Even though it hurts, I’m healed.” Not “I will be healed.” Not “One day, maybe, God willing.” No I am healed. That’s the kind of faith that makes hell nervous. Faith that speaks in the present tense when the facts still look ugly. That’s the difference between hope as a wish and faith as a declaration.

Let me spin you some folklore an old-soul kind of tale that came to me like a whisper in prayer. There was this man let’s call him Elijah, though he could’ve been anybody who’d been sick thirty-eight long years. Thirty-eight summers, thirty-eight crawfish boils, thirty-eight winters watching life pass him by. Folks had stopped believing in his healing before he even hit his thirties. By the time he limped through his forties, they said, “Don’t mind Elijah. His sickness ate up his mind. He’s just talking nonsense.”

But Elijah kept whispering, “Soon. My healing is coming.” He said it when his legs gave out. He said it when his body betrayed him. He said it when people laughed at him like he’d lost all his marbles. And they called him crazy, because that’s what faith looks like when you’re surrounded by doubters.

Then one day, the Creator stepped into his story. Didn’t knock, didn’t tiptoe. He rolled in like the second line at a parade. And Elijah weak, broken, written off felt something surge in his bones. Heat, power, mercy, all rolled together like gumbo. He stood up. Then he walked. Then he ran. Then he danced till his sandals tore. And the ones who mocked him? They sat there dumbfounded, choking on their own doubt. Because when the Creator shows out, He don’t leave room for excuses.

So when the Creator speaks, don’t get slick. Don’t throw up your hand and say, “Now hold on, Lord, You don’t understand. My situation is different.” Sweetheart, sit down. If He can tell the Mississippi when to rise and when to fall, He can handle your mess without your commentary. The same God who painted the skies at sunset doesn’t need you giving Him directions like He’s lost in traffic.

Here’s the thing: inside of time, nothing lasts forever. Pain won’t. Joy won’t. Life itself won’t. But step outside time, and there’s redemption so deep it swallows up clocks. Eternal love, redemptive love, a love that doesn’t tick or tock but just is. That’s the love the Creator keeps pouring whether you believe it or not.

And back to my grandmother again because that woman was a well of wisdom she’d always say, “It’s people over profit.” Took me years to get it. As a kid, I thought she was just fussing about greedy businessmen. But now? I see it clear. This world will sell you shiny lies, then charge interest. But the Creator? He cares about souls. He don’t care about the brand of your suit, or how fat your pockets look when you walk into church. He cares how you treat folks, how you lift them when they fall.

But let’s be real the noise of this world is louder than a brass band. Violent language, hateful chatter, everybody screaming online, nobody listening. You gotta guard your ears like you guard your grandma’s secret gumbo recipe. Because what you let in your ear will nest in your heart, and what nests in your heart will leak out your mouth. If you let the world dim your light, you’re not just sitting in the dark you’re leaving everybody around you without a candle.

So I tell myself: stop crying about goals I haven’t hit. Look back at the ones I’ve already crushed, the battles I’ve already won, the storms I’ve walked through without drowning. Every breath I take is proof that the Creator ain’t done with me yet.

And sometimes, I just laugh. I really do. I think about all those times I told The Creator, “That’s it, I’m finished, I can’t do this no more.” And the Creator chuckled back like, “Oh child, you thought that was the ending? That was just halftime.” The Creator has a sense of humor, make no mistake. He’ll bless you so loud your enemies will need earplugs just to handle it.

So maybe you’re doubting. Maybe patience feels like a foreign language. Maybe you think heaven blocked your number. But let me tell you: redemption is never late, healing is never canceled, and your story ain’t over. The Creator’s timing will mess up your calendar, humble your logic, and turn your disbelief into confetti. But when it lands, when it unfolds, you’ll finally see He was cooking something far bigger than your microwave prayers.

Faith over facts, always. Because facts say your body is weak, but faith says strength is on the way. Facts say you’re broke, but faith says provision is already moving. Facts say the grave is final, but faith whispers eternity. And if you listen close, with your heart wide open, you’ll hear the Creator laughing. Not at you, but at that little stopwatch you keep waving in His face.

Because even the crawfish know you can’t rush the boil. The pot don’t scream till it’s ready. And when it’s ready, my Lord, everybody eats.

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