Her husband died of prostate cancer. She grieved long and hard. People worried she'd never get over it. She told my aunt she didn't want to get over it.
So she didn't.
Not until the fateful day she went grocery shopping and noticed the homeless folks begging at a busy Atlanta intersection—a popular corner among people looking for handouts.
She'd ignored them in times past, like most do. But something touched her. It was an ordinary-looking man and his son.
He held a cardboard sign, reading: “Son is hungry.”
She drove by. Then, regret overwhelmed her. She turned around and put twenty bucks in his hand. If she would've had more, she would've given it.
“I couldn't bear to think that boy was going hungry,” she said.
She saw him a few days later. She gave more. And that's when the Mama Bear in her awakened. They were feelings she hadn't felt since her husband died.
“I'm a feeder,” she told me. “And I knew they weren't eating real, hot food.”
This would never do.
She went home and rediscovered
her apron. She cooked things like casseroles in foil dishes—and cornbread. It was the first time she'd used her kitchen since her husband.
The next day, she went to the intersection but didn't see the man nor his son. Instead, it was a young woman asking for cash.
"The food was still hot," she said. "So I gave it to her. You should'a seen her face. Was like I gave her gold.”
She returned to her kitchen. Twice as many foil dishes. Twice the cornbread.
Again she visited. No man. No son. This time, it was an older gentleman with girlfriend and a Labrador. She gave them paper bags. They God-blessed her.
She God-blessed back.
It wasn't long before her church friends got in on the action. A handful of ladies cooked every Wednesday.
Soon, they were opening the…