I cooked a gumbo today!

I’m from Louisiana. That is home. Always will be.

I cooked a gumbo today.

Not because it was planned —

but because my wife woke me up and said she wanted gumbo.

And you can’t rush a roux.

You stand there.

Wooden spoon.

Low heat.

Eyes on the pot.

Too fast and it burns.

Too slow and it never becomes what it’s meant to be.

There’s a feeling that settles in when you do something familiar and unhurried.

Something your hands remember before your head does.

It feels like home.

As the roux darkened, it reminded me of what it means for a son to be comfortable in his own skin.

To put his feet on the floor in the morning knowing who he is —

what he’s called to do —

and why he was created, at least for this moment. That is home. Always will be.

Not scrambling.

Not proving.

Not chasing the next thing.

Just present.

Grounded.

Unrushed.

A son doesn’t need to force the process.

He stays with it.

Trusts what time and attention will produce.

Home isn’t a place you arrive at once.

It’s something you tend.

Slowly.

Faithfully.

Today, home smelled like gumbo.

It sounded like pots settling on the stove.

It felt like knowing the evening had a rhythm already written.

There’s an LSU Tigers game tonight.

The kind of thing you don’t schedule — I didn't plan gumbo and LSU — it just belongs there.

Gumbo on the stove.

Game on in the background.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing forced.

That’s home. Always will be.

And it reminded me —

To be a son is to live from home.

Not trying to get there. Not earning your way back.

But carrying a constant reminder of who you are —and what it means to be a son —into whatever this moment requires.

Home isn’t where you stop working. It’s where you start from.

That’s how sons move through the world.

And one last thing

Because some truths don’t need a metaphor.

There is never ever tomatoes in a gumbo. - five