I read this morning in the AJC that Charlie Daniels suffered a stroke last Friday while snowmobiling in Colorado. At 73 years old. Snowmobiling. 73 years old. You can't make this stuff up.
Charlie ate breakfast at Mama's house back in the mid-70s. I'd been in Macon that night and met Charlie through some mutual "brothers". He looked like a grizzly bear but was one of the most down-to-earth people you'd ever want to meet. One thing led to another, and before you knew it we were headed to Mama's.
She cooked bacon and eggs and biscuits and gravy for our scraggly group. I'm not sure she knew (or cared) who was in her kitchen. She just loved cooking for folks. She made sure we said the blessing before we ate.
On the way to Mama's we talked about where we were, and where we were supposed to be. Neither of us were at the second place, and we were both pretty miserable living in the first.
But things happen. Times--and people--change. Charlie ended up coming back to his spiritual roots, and so did I. I think we're both better for it.
I'd like to think Mama's breakfast blessing had a little to do with where we both ended up.