My dad made great barbecued chicken. On so many Sundays, Mom would bring home a chicken from the grocery store and quarter it. She would make the barbecue sauce, and from there, my dad took over.
He would pull out the barbecue pit, which was once a 55-gallon drum, and brush down the grill. Then, he would pour briquettes into the barbecue pit, soak them in lighter fluid and light them. Once the flames died down and the coals turned white, he went to work slathering the barbecue sauce on the chicken, flipping the pieces at just the right time, and cooking it to perfection.
When everything was ready, we would sit at the table, say the blessing and start passing food. Dad would always call dibs on the chicken neck and back. He said those were his favorite pieces, which was fine for us since we liked drumsticks, thighs, breasts and wings. In fact, we thought Dad was a little strange for liking those parts, but we also knew he was "very old," and that, growing up in the depression, he must have acquired a taste for the stringy, less-than-succulent meat. After all, his tastes were quite strange for many foods.
He also seemed to have a penchant for the flavor of burnt foods. When Mom overcooked a few of the biscuits, for instance, those are the ones he would grab. He said he liked them because "when you eat them, they'll make your hair black." Dad already had black hair, so I couldn't understand why the biscuits were necessary. On the other hand, though he ate black bottom biscuits routinely, his hair was becoming a lighter shade of black each year. I'm sure that if we would have challenged him with, "Gee, Dad. Your hair is turning gray no matter how many black bottom biscuits you eat," he would reply, "Just imagine how gray I'd be if I weren't eating those biscuits."
So, growing up in the depression altered my dad's taste in a very convenient way. What we didn't like, he seemed to love.
We were a rural family, and didn't have a lot of money, so eating out was a rare treat. I remember going to KFC one time. I dreaded it. I fully expected my dad to order for himself, "2 chicken necks, a back, and do you have any burnt biscuits? To drink, I'll just have water, so long as it's rust colored."
When he got to the counter, to my surprise, he ordered a breast! "My dad eats white meat?" I just didn't get it. Then I realized, KFC doesn't sell necks and backs. He was just settling for what was on the menu. He suffered through his big, juicy, meaty pieces of chicken without complaining once.
One of the many blessings I've received since being married is the insight I've gained into my father's mind. He loved to joke and laugh, and he wore his frustrations on his sleeve. Yet, he kept a lot inside, too. What a marvelous gift he gave me in chicken necks.
I know now that dad didn't really like chicken necks or backs or black bottom biscuits. He preferred exactly what he ordered at KFC - juicy white meat, fluffy biscuits and a soda. These are the things he sacrificed so that his family could have the best parts of the chicken, the un-burnt biscuits, and the last bit of soda out of the bottle.
At first, I felt sorry for him having to suffer through stringy bits of meat and pungent biscuits. How was he able to tolerate picking little bits of dry meat off of tiny bones knowing that he was the one who made the money that bought the chicken in the first place. How sad that he quietly nibbled the necks, backs and blackened biscuits without complaining. What a sacrifice he made for his family.
Then I realized something about my dad - something I could only understand once I got married and became a dad myself. Necks and backs were not his favorite parts of the chicken. They were his least favorite. Burnt biscuits tasted as bad to him as they do to anyone. But, as he sat at the head of the table, nibbling the stringy neck and back meat, he watched my older brothers enjoying thighs, my mom eating a breast, me eating drumsticks and my younger brother eating wings. How satisfying must that have been for him seeing his family enjoying their meals. Necks & backs must have been ambrosia to him. How sweet must those black bottom biscuits have been to him knowing his family was enjoying the best parts of the meal. If he had taken a breast and left the neck for one of us, he would have gagged on it.
Almost two decades after my dad's passing, he's still teaching me life lessons. I've always thought of sacrifice as having to tolerate the least, the worst, and the dregs so that others could enjoy the first, the most, and the best. It always had a negative connotation to me. Now, I understand that sacrifice is sweet, sacrifice is succulent, sacrifice is satisfying. Sacrifice is giving the best of what you have to the ones you love the most.
This realization makes me wonder about God's sacrifice of His own Son. Surely, He gave His best to the ones He loves the most. My dad sacrificed thighs and breasts by feasting on necks and black-bottom biscuits. Surely, he delighted in every bite knowing his family was benefiting from his sacrifice. How did God feel as He watched His Son being tortured, pierced and humiliated? Was it agony to see His Son killed by the people for whom He was being sacrificed, or was it ecstasy to Him? Was God's sacrifice of His only Son as sweet to Him as chicken necks were to my dad?
It was to me.
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