Growing up, every Saturday my dad would take my mom, my sister, and me to Hamilton Mountain.
We stayed overnight at my grandaunt's house so we could attend Hamilton Mountain Baptist Church on Sunday morning. It was our family's church, the one generations before us had attended. My dad didn't go to church with us, which was common for many younger Jamaican men back then, but he was very much part of our family routine. He dropped us off on Saturday and picked us up again on Sunday evening.
There was just one little problem.
I hated going to church.
Not because I didn't love being with my family.
I was scared of God.
As a child, I thought God was watching every single thing I did. Every bad thought. Every little lie. Every mistake. Church didn't comfort me. It terrified me.
So one Sunday morning, I came up with what I thought was the perfect plan.
I pretended to be sick.
Everyone believed me.
The family left for church, and the moment they disappeared down the road, my miracle healing happened.
I jumped up and ran straight down the path to my cousin Nadine's house, where my cousin Fitzy was waiting.
Now, I had a mission.
My grandaunt always made pumpkin soup with cocoa in it, and to me, the cocoa was the best part. Since I had absolutely no idea how to cook, I figured I had already solved the mystery.
Water.
Cocoa.
Soup.
Simple.
Before leaving the house, I had quietly helped myself to what I considered the greatest treasure from my grandaunt's harvest, her cocoa.
Not a little.
A lot.
Fitzy and I got the pot going, proudly making what we were convinced was pumpkin soup.
No pumpkin.
No seasoning.
No vegetables.
Just water and cocoa.
We thought we were little chefs.
Then church ended.
My grandaunt heard the commotion down at Nadine's house and came to see what kind of foolishness we were doing.
She didn't say a word.
She walked over to the fire, picked up the spoon, and slowly stirred the pot.
Then she looked inside.
There, floating in the water, was what looked like half her cocoa harvest.
She looked at the pot.
Then she looked at me.
I was sure I was finished.
Instead, she started laughing.
She laughed because she already knew.
Out of everything growing around her yard, there was only one thing I loved enough to take.
Her cocoa.
Looking back now, I laugh too.
Not because we made soup.
Because two children honestly believed pumpkin soup was nothing more than cocoa and water.
And somehow, for one Sunday afternoon, that seemed to make perfect sense.