"Father, Son, and Corn Casserole" by Eva Esch

In late 2020, I found myself in the pediatric unit of Pine Rest Christian Mental Health Hospital, a psychiatric hospital focused on incorporating faith into treatment. Obviously I did not want to be there, but I didn’t want to be there even more because they wouldn’t stop bugging me about my relationship with God and how that influenced the decisions that landed me there. They kept sending this weird chaplain man to come talk to me, which helped me none because the only thing I could focus on during our conversations were his completely shaved hands. Needless to say, I felt their attempts to improve my condition via the Holy Spirit were pointless and dumb. 

If constantly being tracked down and cornered by a bald handed freak wasn’t enough, I was surviving off of honey nut cheerios and chocolate pudding because mealtime was nothing short of vomit inducing. They restricted and monitored our portions heavily, which I thought was ridiculous because almost no one seemed to be able to force down the first heapings of slop they served us. As healthcare professionals, you would think they would know that good food increases dopamine levels and can improve mental health. But of course, as evident by the half painted walls scattered with fist-sized holes, good food was not in the budget. 

A few days into my stay, I was starting to get sick of pudding cups. I went hungry most days. The food became such a problem that one nurse questioned if I had an eating disorder, and to that I promptly responded, “You try eating this shit”. I was making very little progress with my mental health because that terrible, windowless prison cafeteria from hell was doing the opposite of remedying my “I have nothing to live for” mindset. That was, until dinnertime rolled around on the fourth night. 

I waited in line for around five minutes until it was my turn to receive my own saran-wrapped tray of garbage. I tried my best to hide my repulsion from the food service worker. I found a table and sat, setting my tray down with a clack. Peeling back the wet plastic, I got my first look. For dinner tonight, a delectable selection of blanched vegetables, canned pears, and a mysteriously dense yellow cube. I started on the pears, sure that nothing could be wrong there. They were cold and slightly grainy as normal; I was safe. I ate my serving of those. A particularly lousy looking piece of broccoli was making eyes at me, its appearance more pitiful than my own situation. I decided against that one. 

Still hungry, I began inspecting the yellow block before me. It smelled like cornbread, which was encouraging, but I became skeptical once I noticed the kernels of corn scattered throughout it. It sort of made sense, so I tried to reason myself into taking a bite. I like corn. I guess I like cornbread. The smell was not forging an attack against my nostrils, and its appearance, though verging on offensively yellow, didn’t look that bad. I dug my fork into it, then took a bite. Immediately I was thrown off guard, like this mystery casserole had just thrown a mad uppercut straight into my jaw. Its unexpected sweetness was comparable to cheesecake, and so was the way it rolled across my tongue with unforeseen grace. It was almost the consistency of pudding, and since I had decidedly abandoned my reliance on Snack Pack pudding cups, this was exactly what I was looking for. 

Though there were few windows on my unit and the November overcast was undoubtedly gray, I felt the room brighten. The sterility of the place softened, and for a moment, I was comforted. I was almost giddy as I took bite after bite of the wonderful mix of Jiffy corn meal, butter, and canned corn. With each spoonful, I felt more purpose, more will than I had in years. I was a changed man.

For the rest of my stay, Pine Rest continuously attempted to inject faith into my treatment plan. But no matter how hard they tried, they would remain unsuccessful, because the only time I truly felt God during my time there was when I took that first bite of corn casserole. 

Not only is the experience of corn casserole transcendent, the idea of it is inherently Jesus-y. Historically, corn casserole is a poor man’s food. Its ingredients come from boxes and cans, and it’s mixed in the same pan it’s cooked in. It’s simple and accessible. And still, it is unequivocally delicious. Jesus preached that God’s goodness and love was in the small things. That everyone, especially the poor and the sickly, deserve that goodness in some way. Even in something as simple as corn casserole.

Four years later, I am still not a very religious person. Yet, I can’t help but think of my first encounter with corn casserole as a spiritual revelation of sorts. In that moment, I had felt something holy. It could have been the two entire sticks of butter. Or maybe it was the magic of Jiffy CornBread Mix. Maybe it was comfort. Maybe it was hope. 

I arrived at Pine Rest Christian Mental Health Services with the idea that there was little in the world left for me. And as terribly simple as it sounds(and almost disrespectful to my family and friends), corn casserole reminded me just how much I had to live for. I didn’t need some sort of life-changing purpose to save myself. What I really needed was something simple to keep me going until I was ready to move on to bigger things.  

To this day, corn casserole remains a representation of my favorite parts of life. The things that are undoubtedly simple, like snow days, a run in with an old friend, your pet falling asleep on your lap, or for me, a bowl of homemade corn casserole after a hard day. These things may seem insignificant, but they are often the difference between choosing to leave and finding something small to stay for.