Growing up in the South, wisdom didn’t always come in books or classrooms—it often came from the porch, the garden, or a quiet voice in the kitchen. My grandmother used to say something that stuck with me, a saying I recently heard echoed in a comedian’s joke, but the truth in it was never a joke to me.

She’d say:

“In life, you only have two things to worry about. If you’re healthy or if you’re sick. If you’re healthy, you ain’t got nothing to worry about. But if you’re sick, you only have two things to worry about. If you’re going to get better or if you’re going to get worse…”

And the progression continued until the very end:

“…If you die, you only got two things to worry about: Are you going to heaven or to hell? And if you go to hell, you only got two things to worry about—original or extra crispy.”

Everyone laughs at that last line—and we should. Laughter has always been part of our medicine. But beneath the humor is a deep truth: worry is a thief, and faith—however we define it—is a compass.

Wisdom as Strategy

This reflection isn’t just about a funny saying. It’s about the philosophy that shaped my life: that peace doesn’t come from certainty—it comes from surrendering to purpose.

My elders taught me that our time here is sacred. That service to others is not just charity—it’s responsibility. That dignity isn’t about wealth or title—it’s about how you carry yourself when everything else is stripped away.

That’s why I serve. That’s why I lead. Not to escape the worries of this world, but to honor those who taught me how to walk through them with grace, grit, and a sense of humor.

Leadership Grounded in Lived Experience

In times such as these, it’s easy for leaders to become overwhelmed—uncertain about funding, burdened by the weight we carry on behalf of our communities, our staff, our boards, and our neighbors.

But when I hear the phrase “lived experience as strategy,” I don’t hear jargon—I hear the voices of generations of strategic survivors. People like my grandmother, who endured the worst of times with wisdom and wit. And it is through that lived experience that I find purpose, strength, and a reminder: Strategy is not separate from survival. It’s how we overcome.

That’s why I lean in—to our leadership, our staff, our neighbors. Because they, too, know how to overcome. We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again.

A Call to Action

This isn’t just my story—it’s our story.

It’s the story of a community that refused to give up. It’s the story of the Inter-Faith Food Shuttle, built by people who know what it means to face hunger, to rise with dignity, and to pass forward not just food—but hope, skills, healing, and purpose.

We’re now seeing second generations of once-struggling neighbors becoming mentors, farmers, chefs, and community leaders. Self-sufficiency is no longer just a goal—it’s a legacy.

So to everyone reading this: Share the story.

Share the story of resilience. Of laughter in the hard times. Of gardens that grew from abandoned lots. Of meals that fed more than stomachs—they fed spirits. Share it because someone you know may need a reminder that they, too, have two things to worry about—and maybe less than that.

And if you’re moved to do more, join us. There’s a place for you here. In the work. In the witness. In the movement.

Because in the end, you really only have two things to worry about. And neither of them should stop you from building a better world.