Grace and Gratitude Like Black-Eyed Peas

Dear Friends,

As I chopped onions this morning—mincing jalapeños, cubing brisket to render in the bottom of my black-eyed peas pot—my thoughts simmered alongside the fragrant aroma rising from my stove. The past year, already fading into memory, mingled in my mind with the uncertainties of the one ahead. Yet my heart kept returning to a letter I’d just received from a brother down in Chihuahua, Mexico.

Despite his distance, his challenges, and the doubts and unbelief he faces even among friends, his letter carried no lamentation. No bewailing of what he lacked. No cataloging of losses or desperate longing for what might finally “make” him a Christian. Instead, his words pulsed with gratitude—an unshaken acknowledgment of the gifts God had given him and a determination to foster and preserve them.

Isn’t it always so? The deepest wellsprings of grace and gratitude often bubble up from lives riddled with struggle and need.

Gratitude doesn’t measure abundance; it evidences grace. It wells up within us, becoming that fountain of living water Jesus promised—springing up to eternal life. Gratitude signals that Jesus remains Lord of our ambitions, fears, past, present, and future. And with Him, all things are possible. Without Him? Nothing is ever enough.

I dropped the brisket into the pot and let it begin to brown, stirring in the onions, a pinch of Mexican oregano, black pepper, and cumin. Four large jalapeños followed, their heat melding with the smoky aroma filling the kitchen. I almost didn’t want to start the vent hood—the scent was too rich, too layered. Crushing cloves of garlic, I reflected on another layer, another aroma—one of tradition.

I looked over at the black-eyed peas Rebekah had been soaking since yesterday and asked myself, “Why do we always make black-eyed peas on New Year’s?”

The question pulled me into the legend—the history behind this humble tradition. And there, gratitude and memory began to intertwine.

Black-Eyed Peas and the Ashes of War

The tradition of black-eyed peas arose from the ashes of America’s darkest hour: the Civil War—a conflict in which more Americans perished than in any war before or since. We look back now with tidy narratives of heroes and villains, but war never fits into neat equations. Reality is tangled, bloodied, blurred by fog and smoke, and burdened with contradiction.

One side—misguided yet fiercely loyal—fought for independence while carrying the stain of slavery. The other, claiming justice and freedom, rationalized atrocities in the name of righteousness, while actually pursuing self-interested goals. Both sides were saturated with racism and hypocrisy.

Abraham Lincoln’s wife’s family continued to own slaves when he issued the Emancipation Proclamation. Ulysses S. Grant, the Union’s leading general and later president, came from a family that owned slaves, and his wife, Julia Dent Grant, also kept slaves throughout the early years of the war. Meanwhile, Robert E. Lee, the Confederacy’s commander-in-chief, had freed the slaves inherited through his wife’s family before the war, underscoring the troubling contradictions that shaped the conflict.

But the story of black-eyed peas isn’t told from the roar of cannons or the charge of soldiers. It’s told from the ashes—the ruins left in the wake of “total war.”

Sherman and Sheridan’s Total War—A Scorched Earth of Fire and Famine

When victory proved elusive, Generals William Tecumseh Sherman and Philip Sheridan resolved to make war so cruel, so merciless, that the South would collapse—not from the loss of soldiers, but from the breaking of its civilians. They turned their armies into instruments of terror, wielding fire and famine as weapons of submission.

Sherman wrote with chilling clarity:

“War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.”¹

And cruelty he unleashed.

Sherman’s infamous March to the Sea carved a path of destruction from Atlanta to Savannah. Crops burned. Homes looted. Barns razed. Livestock slaughtered. Fields salted. Families left to starve in the ash. One Union soldier described the aftermath:

“Behind us lay Atlanta, smoldering and in ruins, the black smoke rising high in the air, and hanging like a pall over the ruined city.”²

Meanwhile, in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, Sheridan pursued his own campaign of terror, boasting:

“If a crow wants to fly down the Shenandoah, he must carry his provisions with him.”³

He made good on his threat. Sheridan’s troops burned over 2,000 barns, destroyed 70 mills, slaughtered thousands of livestock, and left fields barren. Civilians were reduced to starvation.⁴

Historian John Heatwole described the aftermath in The Burning:

“And now, General Sheridan…set his troops at work, and all the way from Staunton to Winchester was soon one scene of desolation. He burned every house, every barn, every meal, all the corn cribs, haystacks, and the entire food crops of all kinds for the year…. In fact, nothing that devilish ingenuity could invent was left undone to transform the loveliest and most fertile valley in the world into a desolate and howling wilderness. Not less than ten-thousand innocent women and children were by this savagery reduced to starvation…”⁵

Sheridan himself reported with grim pride:

“The country from the Blue Ridge to the North Mountain has been made untenable…. I have destroyed over 2,000 barns filled with wheat, hay, and farming implements, over seventy mills filled with flour and wheat.”⁶

And as the fires raged, the cries of women and children pierced the night. Colonel James H. Kidd of Custer’s command recalled:

“What I saw there is burned into my memory. The anguish pictured in their faces would have melted any heart not seared by the horrors and ‘necessities’ of war. It was too much for me, and at the first moment that duty would permit, I hurried from the scene.”⁷

But there was no escaping the scene for those left behind. Amid the smoldering ruins, families—mostly women and children—searched for anything that might sustain them through the bitter winter.

Sherman had boasted:

“I can make Georgia howl.”⁸

And howl it did—through the cries of the hungry, the wails of the widowed, and the prayers of the desperate. Yet even in the ashes, hope and gratitude took root.

Gratitude in the Scarcity and the Plenty

Amid the smoldering ruins, families scavenged what little remained. And there—buried in the ash and rubble—they found black-eyed peas. Overlooked by pillaging soldiers, the peas were considered livestock feed—too humble to matter. But to the starving, they became God’s provision.

Mothers boiled peas into soup, stretched them with rice, and ground them into flour—anything to keep their children alive. In the bleakest of winters, black-eyed peas became symbols of survival, sustenance, and unexpected grace.

Symbol of Loss or Sign of Grace?

And that’s why black-eyed peas grace American tables every New Year’s—often both North and South—to remind us that gratitude isn’t rooted in abundance but in humility. It flourishes not in the fullness of what we see but in the faith to trust in Him who holds our knowns and unknowns, our yesterdays and tomorrows, in the palm of His hand.

It’s easy to be grateful when we live in times of plenty—financial prosperity, peace on every side, abundant fellowship, and storehouses brimming with truth. And we pray for the continuation of seasons of blessings, but no matter what life may hold, let there be no murmuring in our hearts, no envy for what we lack, no prayers spent amiss on selfish cravings.

Let our gratitude rise—not merely from what fills our barns, but from the grace that fills our souls. Let us see, as those war-torn mothers did, that even the humblest gifts can become treasures in the hands of God. Whether as nations, or local churches, families, or individuals—when we face life’s trials, pain, or loss, let us search for, find, and rejoice in the provision God sends.

Defeat would whine, “We’re hopeless, rejected, defeated, and ruined; all we have are black-eyed peas.”
Gratitude says, “We’re hard-pressed but not destroyed, set back but not defeated, devastated yet still alive. And look—God gave us black-eyed peas, a sign of His favor and our good fortune!”

And for generations to come, Christians will raise what might have been the emblem of our anguish, celebrating it as a sign of good fortune and blessing every New Year. That’s the attitude of gratitude.

Gratitude isn't just our response to what is or isn't; it changes our reality, opens our eyes, unclenches our fists, and steadies our hearts. It reminds us that Jesus is enough—yesterday, today, and forever. And from Him, the bread of life, we have all we need.

“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe.” (Heb. 12:28)

So, as we stir pots of black-eyed peas and fill our homes with their savory aroma, let us offer more than a meal. Let us offer a spirit of thanksgiving—wholehearted, humble, and unshakable.

“And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’

And he replied: ‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.’” — Minnie Louise Haskins

Let us feast in gratitude. Let us rejoice in sufficient grace. And let us welcome the New Year—hearts full, hands open, and eyes fixed on the God who provides.

Happy New Year—2025!

—The Adams Family