Come, Dine With Me

Maybe your relationship with food has been a rocky one. So has mine. I remember being eleven years old and already not liking this body that housed my soul. My mom is one of those moms who keeps everything. A few years ago she gave me one of my childhood diaries that she had kept. It’s a small, butter yellow diary, still scented after all these years, with some kind of perfume that instantly takes me back to girlhood whenever I breathe it in. One of my childhood best friends gave it to me as a gift on my tenth birthday; her inscription, in girly, child-like writing, rests on the inside cover. My friend’s mom, hot glued cream lace around the front cover and little yellow roses and ribbon bows on each corner. This diary was the keeper of my secrets, and all the drama that goes along with those middle school years. In April of 1991, my little eleven year old self decided to go on my very first diet, because, even at this tender age, I believed that my body already was not good enough. I cannot remember how I knew this about myself, but I just knew that I wasn’t “right”. On a Saturday, I recorded my starting weight of eighty four pounds, and by that Monday I had lost two pounds. I remember checking books out of the library on how to count calories and measure my food, so I began to do this. The first time, it lasted for five days, and I lost five pounds. I was eighty four pounds, and had a goal weight of seventy three pounds. I didn’t reach my goal that time, so it wasn’t long before I would start again, and again, and again, from the time I was eleven years old, my relationship with food has been tenuous. 

Being almost forty and more self aware, I can see things clearer now. I feel an aching, real grief for that little girl who entered that world of disordered eating so early. I feel such compassion for her. I know that she thought that if she weighed a certain number on the scale she would be lovable – loved. It is just now that I understand what she had been -has been- searching for. The reality is that I have been loved my entire life. Of course I have been, by the Creator of the universe Who breathed life into me, and took painstaking care to make every part of who I am – the One Who calls me His beloved. I have always been deeply loved by two parents, siblings, and so many family and friends. Yet, my entire life, I have battled to feel loved. It has presented itself in so many different ways, but one way that has impacted me, maybe the most, is this relationship with food and with my body. So maybe it makes perfect sense that I would write a book on food and the table and the community we find inside of that. Maybe it is a way to do the hard work of finally resting in my belovedness.

It is true that I find beauty and deep connection in food and the table, but I also bear very real scars. I still wrestle the same demons that my eleven year old self wrestled. Maybe the delight and joy that I write of when I share a favorite recipe, and describe the tastes that dance on my tongue, and the way these experiences have connected people around my table sounds foreign to you, because of your own battle with food. That’s okay. There is still space for you at my table. I don’t want you to leave, and I don’t want you to feel alone, because you are not alone. I have been in your seat, and too many days I still am. Let’s stay at the table together. I believe the way forward begins with compassion – compassion for ourselves that in turn turns outward to others. I believe that our relationship with food is a spiritual one, as all of life is spiritual. As much as we claim otherwise, we don’t and can’t live compartmentalized lives. So all of life is spiritual, and this includes coming to the table to nourish our bodies and to find communion in our relationships. It’s our stories that bring us back to the table and it is our stories that keep us there. I don’t have another cure for this struggle with our relationship with food and our bodies that has not already been stated in hundreds of other excellent books and by much wiser people than myself. Of course we have freedom in and through Jesus, but life – our spiritual journey – is a process. In real life, many times, freedom does not just happen over night, or with enough faith. It just doesn’t. So, dear ones, yes, you, the one who stepped on the scale this morning and immediately started the day on the wrong foot, the one who feels immense shame for the extra chocolate chips she gobbled down behind a closed door, the precious ones who love their current bodies, the ones who simply use food as fuel, yes, you, come. Please come. Come to my table, sit awhile, dine with me, it’s our stories that weave us together as we continue to learn the beauty of tasting and knowing that indeed God is good, and we are loved – more loved than we have ever imagined.

{an unedited excerpt from my manuscript}


DSC_0051 A page from the scented diary of my eleven year old self.

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Does Anyone Read Blogs Anymore?

Is “blogging” still even a thing? I honestly have no idea if people write, yet alone, read blogs anymore. I am not sure if I care enough to have that keep me from writing here. But I am not sure if I don’t care either. I used to be so good at this – at keeping a little space occupied with words and filled with photos. I am not good at it anymore, and I cannot decide if that matters to me. Somedays I want to write, but sometimes I wish only strangers read the words, because it feels so vulnerable to have people that I know read them. But then I kind of like this little space, and the thought of moving and starting again is not at all appealing. All I know for sure is that,  I am a writer. I don’t say that in an arrogant way, because honestly, it means little. It certainly does not mean that I am a good one. It simply means that I was created to communicate words through my hands more than with my mouth. So write, I must.

I have been working on a manuscript for literal years now. To be honest, I scrapped the first one. The one that detailed our adoption journeys, because in the midst of writing I began to really transform and grow from the person I once was and all I believed. I realized that first manuscript was not a story that ever belonged to me, and that it was not ever mine to share. Plus my thoughts on adoption have radically changed (along with church, missions, theology, and just about every other major brick of certainty that was at one point the scaffolding of my life). I love my sons with all of my heart, and I cannot imagine my life without them, but my ideas about how they joined our family are catastrophically different from the ideas that I was once so vocally passionate about. That is best left to discuss over coffee, face-to-face, because even when someone is better at words through her fingers and behind a screen, there are certain topics that need eye contact, voice and relationships. I suck at that, but I am trying. So manuscript number one was deleted, and it was the very best right thing to do. I have no regrets, and am so thankful that it never went to the publisher.

The idea for manuscript two was birthed almost two years ago, and I was so excited about this one. For awhile I wrote passionately. But, as characteristic of myself, it eventually got pushed to the back burner for other things and other people. I am not the best at self care  – of making margin for what is actually life-giving to me. I make promises to myself and break them all of the time – promises that I would never dream of breaking if I had made them to another human and not just to myself. So this summer, I picked that manuscript back up with renewed focus and determination. I also picked up another life-giving activity that I have neglected – reading. Reading makes me a better writer and an overall better person. I picked a wide variety of books from a wide variety of authors who believe a wide variety of things. The stack was large, and I am still blissfully working my way through it. It has been so refreshing to read view points that I once would have feared to read and to relax in the freedom of reading for pure enjoyment. One of the books that I read this summer was Shauna Niequest’s Bread and Wine: A Love Letter to Life Around the Table with Recipes. First of all, it is a beautifully written book. Second of all, it is my manuscript. I mean it is exactly what I was in the middle of writing, but it is so much better. I cried as I read it, not because the writing moved me, although it did at times, but because I felt as if this second manuscript, which I was so proud of, is a cheap knock-off of the real deal – a real book, by a real (and fantastic) author.


I didn’t come here today, because I had an epiphany about my writing that I wanted to share (nor am I looking for pity or for people to tell me to just write it anyway). I didn’t come to the obvious conclusion that my story matters, and that nobody else has exactly my story or my way with words. I didn’t decide that I needed to push through and just write that manuscript. I promised myself that I would write a chapter every week this summer, and I read Shauna’s book and have yet to open the manuscript back up. It has been weeks now. I honestly don’t know what I will do moving forward. Somedays I feel as if manuscript number two will be scrapped and that is crushing. I guess I came here today just to write something some place. Maybe to see if I could, if these hands had anything to say or if writing helped sort out my head. Maybe it is to resurrect this little space instead of the manuscript, or maybe alongside with the manuscript, or maybe my writing will take a completely different turn. I have no idea.

All, I know is that I must write, and today it was here.


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