Sausage, Biscuits, and Gravy: The Way to an Episcopalian’s Soul

By Pat Clark

Dedication: This story is dedicated with deep affection and gratitude to Deacon Susan McKee of St. Paul’s Episcopal Chapel, (Magnolia Springs, Alabama) and to The Rt. Rev. Susan B. Haynes, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Southern Virginia (formerly Rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Mishawaka, Indiana). Through their swift connection and pastoral care, they brought Christ’s peace directly into our home during a time of great sorrow, reminding us that the Church has no geographical boundaries.

My journey as an Episcopalian began over a decade ago at a dinner table in the community hall of Magnolia Springs, Alabama. The hall sat next to St. Paul’s Episcopal Chapel. My husband, John, and I had stumbled into a Saturday evening potluck overflowing with warm Southern hospitality that immediately drew us in. It was an incredible feast of comforting classics and rich desserts. That single evening of fellowship was what ultimately drew me to the Episcopal church.

A few days earlier, we found this beautiful town purely by accident on our way to Mobile Bay. Rounding a sharp curve, we drove under a magnificent canopy of mossy oak trees, passing historic homes where late-summer flowers framed the fences. A moment later, the picturesque white chapel came into view, looking like something straight out of a history book.

To pique John’s curiosity, we stopped to explore the grounds and peer through the windows of the century-old Carpenter-Gothic house of worship. Near the edge of the road, a sign extended an open invitation to a potluck the next day.

On our ride home after that dinner, I was surprised to hear John, a seldom churchgoing Presbyterian, ask if I would be willing to attend church at the chapel on Sunday. Throughout our marriage, we had rarely shared a time of worship. I jumped at the chance to get up early Sunday morning to attend the 8:30 service.

As a non-practicing Catholic, I was amazed to see how much the Episcopal Eucharist resembled a Roman Catholic Mass. The priest wore liturgical vestments and said prayers similar to the ones I was taught. It felt almost identical to my childhood upbringing. One beautiful difference was the “Open Table” at

Communion, which welcomed all baptized Christians regardless of their denomination.

While sitting in the pew, John leaned over and whispered, “Do you smell something cooking?”

I thought that was a strange thing to notice in church. But following the Peace, the priest invited the congregation to continue fellowship in the parish hall, where a hot breakfast of sausage, biscuits, and gravy awaited everyone. John’s nose was definitely onto something.

Throughout our married life, there were two meals he enjoyed more than anything else: his favorite early morning combo at local restaurants, and liver and onions. Neither had ever crossed my palate. Watching him enjoy breakfast, I knew we would soon be regulars. After nearly fifty years of marriage, I finally discovered the secret to getting my husband to church was sausage, biscuits, and gravy!

My early impression of Episcopalians was that they were independent thinkers. Christians at heart, they preferred to follow the Gospel rather than be bound by rigid rules. Ironically, years later while preparing to be received into the Episcopal Church, I learned they have a beautiful philosophy for the Sacrament of Reconciliation: “all may; none must; some should.”

Each spring, when we returned to our permanent home in Granger, Indiana, we never bothered finding a local parish. Our attendance was tied exclusively to our winters in Alabama, where we were seasonal chapel members. Back north, we quickly slipped into the old habit of sleeping late on Sundays.

Then, in 2017, our lives were upended by a severe storm that caused major damage to our home and property. Between the endless stream of contractors, our world felt chaotic. Before long, the stress of the disarray began to show. John stopped taking walks with his beloved Springer Spaniel, Romy. His days became a blur of restless nights and long afternoon naps.

When I asked if everything was OK, he said he felt tired lately. I offered to make an appointment with his doctor for a check-up, just in case.

A few days later, I woke to hear him coughing and struggling to breathe. After a lengthy debate, he agreed to let me drive him to the emergency room. Days later, while still in the hospital, tests revealed he had terminal cancer.

Upon discharge, John wanted nothing more than to return immediately to Alabama before he died. As reality set in, I realized that traveling back down south was not possible. Instead, he chose to spend his final days in hospice care at our home in Granger.

Devastated, I reached out to Deacon Susan McKee at St. Paul’s Chapel in Alabama. She immediately contacted clergy near Granger to support us. That was how Mother Susan Haynes, the Rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Mishawaka, Indiana, came into our lives. She called to offer a helping hand with anything we needed, encouraged us to visit, and assured me we would be welcome.

A couple of days later, I introduced myself to Mother Susan while attending the Holy Eucharist she officiated. I felt an immediate connection between the historic Mishawaka church and the serene chapel of Magnolia Springs. Though miles apart, the stately weathered brick in Mishawaka stood in peaceful contrast to the Alabama chapel’s white siding, yet both buildings held that same deep, quiet history.

Sitting in those pews, I felt the exact same serenity I had felt down south. That quiet comfort was what finally opened my heart to fully embrace the Episcopal faith.

Mother Susan quickly became a regular in our home, ministering to our family. During one of her visits, John brought up baptism. He was worried because he had never been baptized. A check with our local Presbyterian Church, where his parents had attended, showed no records in their files. As he was transitioning at the end of his life, John asked her to baptize him.

I was present with my daughter, Diana, to witness his baptism by Mother Susan. A few days later, he passed away at the age of 81, just three weeks before our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

After my husband’s death, I continued to worship in Mishawaka. In time, I truly began to consider myself an Episcopalian, finding a faith that allows me to think independently while resting in the quiet presence of God. Realizing that John’s sudden eagerness to go to church with me all those years ago was his final, enduring gift of love gives me lasting peace. He knew I would need a spiritual home to survive the grief ahead, and he led me to it.

I am exactly where I belong.