Mama Prayed, Grandma Cooked, and God Listened

Mama Prayed, Grandma Cooked, and God Listened

By Kateb  Shunnar

Once upon a time not the fairytale kind where frogs turn into princes or where people live happily ever after without paying a light bill no sir, this tale kicks off in 1983 New Orleans, right where the saints marched and the pot of gumbo was never too far from the stove. This was the time when you could smell red beans on a Monday from five blocks away, when your whole family lived on the same street, and when the church was the village.

Church wasn't just something we did. Church was who we were. That Baptist church on Miracle Avenue? Oh baby, that was our holy headquarters. And I don’t care what corner of the world you worship from whether it’s a synagogue, temple, shrine, or cathedral the point is, the connection to the Divine matters. Back then, our connection was forged in worn-out pews, with hand fans that doubled as air conditioning and fly swatters, and choir robes that smelled like prayer, perfume, and starch.

That church was our everything. Birth announcements, Sunday dinners, wedding proposals, baby dedications, baptisms, and the occasional auntie squabble all went down right there under the same roof. It was the glue that held our block, our bloodlines, and our bones together. It didn’t matter if the roof leaked or if Sister Johnson sang three keys too high we showed up, dressed like it was Easter every Sunday, even if your shoes were leaning like the Tower of Pisa.

Mama used to say, "If it weren’t for the Lord, baby, I don't know where we'd be." And she wasn’t exaggerating. One night, I was fakin' sleep (you know the move, one eye half-cracked, breathing like you halfway dead), and she walked in my room, humming:

"Lord, I love You. Yes, I love You... How I love You... I really love You..."

Now, I had to pretend I was asleep, not 'cause I didn’t want to join in, but because once you got swept into Mama and Grandma's midnight praise break, you weren't gettin' out for at least 45 minutes. I learned to play possum early. But deep down, I wanted to soak in every word. Because something about that music, those prayers, their voices it filled the air with peace. Like the room shifted and heaven got just a little closer.

My mama and grandma raised us with more than rules they raised us with love and faith. We weren't just surviving, we were learning how to thrive, how to give, how to believe when there wasn’t a reason to. And they were funny too. My grandma would say things like, "Boy, be careful what you pray for. Last time I prayed for patience, the Lord sent me your uncle." Or, "If God don’t do nothing else for me today, at least He didn’t let me slap nobody."

We didn’t have therapists, we had fishin' trips. I remember sittin’ out by the water with my grandma when she said, "Child , we take God’s grace for granted all the time, but He still feeds us." She cast that line and added, "And let me tell you, prayer ain't a back-and-forth. It’s a monologue. Say what you need to say, then hush yo’ mouth and listen."

Now, life gon' come at you, hard and heavy. We all have our graves. Not the cemetery kind I mean emotional, spiritual, mental, even financial graves. But to get from the grave to the glory, you gotta do three things:

One: Get close intimate close with the Creator. I ain't talkin' 'bout your cousin who posts a scripture every Sunday and cusses folks out by Monday. I mean a relationship. Get off social media, turn off them dusty podcasts, and get on your knees. Talk to the One who made you.

Two: Ignore the haters. Don’t let folks who never did nothin' tell you how to do somethin'. Reject the septic. You know them people the ones always got a bad smellin' attitude and opinions with no experience.

Three: Have belief so remarkable it makes your doubt look silly. Believe in the impossible. Like, "my rent is due and my wallet is laughing at me" kind of faith. The old folks used to say, "He may not come when you want Him, but He’s always on time."

You gotta be around folks who got that same kind of spirit. You ever met someone who, no matter what, still claps their hands and says, "God is good" like they just hit the jackpot at the spiritual casino? That’s the energy you need.

We didn’t have Wi-Fi, but we had wisdom. We didn’t have Google, but we had Big Mama. When the world started breaking you down, she built you back up with a plate of smothered chicken and a prayer so strong it echoed in your dreams.

Back in the day, the village had flavor and not just because of the seasoning. We had soul. Aunt Tootie knew everybody’s business, but she also knew how to pray you through a storm. Uncle Larry would act a fool Monday through Saturday and still be the first one at the altar on Sunday, weeping like a baby. We understood redemption.

Let me tell you a little local folklore. There was this neighborhood legend called One-Legged Darlene. She swore she could outdance anybody on Bourbon with one good leg and a tambourine. One Sunday, she caught the Holy Ghost so strong, she danced her prosthetic clean off. Folks still talk about it like it was a miracle the day the tambourine was louder than the preacher.

And it’s funny, because those moments? Those were the sermons. The music, the dancing, the laughter, the life of it all it was holy. There was always a message in the music. That’s why even now, in my own season, I find myself saying:

"It won’t always be like this. Sooner or later, it’ll turn in my favor."

Take a deep breath. Let it out.

Be still. And know. That means trust without facts. It means surrender when it don’t make sense. Don’t let this tech-filled world and your mountain of worries pull you from the sacredness of silence. That’s where He speaks the loudest.

Today, I'm 47. Got more questions than answers. But my faith? It's louder. My gratitude? Deeper. My heart? Wide open.

So live with diligence. Love like it’s your last chance. Laugh till your belly hurts. Be known for your worship, your kindness, and your gumbo.

Remember: your grandparents' love was the love of the Creator in an apron and house shoes. If you don’t know that kind of love, go find it. If you do, pass it on.

Because once upon a time wasn't a myth. It was a message.

And it still is.

Amen.