“The bread of God is the One who came out of heaven to give His life to feed the world.” ~John 6:33 TPT
I sat down at the dinner table the other evening, having prepared a ‘sumptuous repast’, when my husband joined me with a flourish, stating, “And this is what makes a great marriage”
I laughed, “So the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach, is what you’re saying??”
Hehehe….
It gave me pause and started me thinking about our forty years together and the moments surrounding meals.
With the approaching Thanksgiving season my memories are drawn to all the customs, thoughts and feelings about food; The breaking of bread together, the sharing of a meal…
This has been a challenge in my life and thus my marriage.
My mom told me, as a baby, I was so fat you could hardly see my eyes, and I couldn’t walk because my thighs were so thick! She said she bears the responsibility in that every time I made a peep she put food in my mouth!!! Haha… I obviously didn’t mind much!
Food is associated with LOVE. My mama loves me. She feeds me.
As a teen, I struggled with the use of food as a way to self soothe. Sadness, loneliness, boredom led to the consumption of large quantities of food. my dad coined the phrase ‘icecreamaholic’ . Pretty sure he was one too.
This habit has followed me through adulthood making me, at times, use tight controls on myself which fluctuate depending on my contentment level.
I learned from my growing years from my mom. Meals were served three times a day, we sat together at a table and shared our day, snacks were healthy, a school lunch was made, dessert was after dinner, and guests were always offered a drink and a treat.
My mom did the cooking when we were little. We weren’t allowed in the kitchen when she cooked. My job was setting the table and staying out of the way.
When my dad was home, he would cook. He was fun. He let me help and taught me how to cook and brought an enjoyment to the process. Cooking just flowed into the eating when we all sat together and shared our meal.
My mom was the type to cook and serve and hardly ever sit down. She waited on us hand and foot. Coincidentally my dad’s mom, my grandma Kitty, did the same thing, only she NEVER sat down. I always felt stressed watching them do that. I wanted to help them so they would sit down too. To me, even at a young age, sitting TOGETHER was important.
As a young adult, my dad and I would ‘graze’ over our meal and have lengthy philosophical conversations.
So…walking into marriage, carrying with me my suitcases full of my own ideas, I naturally believed my dinner table would look like ‘my’ vision of the perfect family.
Um…. Well…
I was totally blessed with my husband’s admiration and enjoyment, especially in my meal serving. He always waited until I sat down to pray and start eating. Every meal, no matter how poor, was greeted with thankfulness and praise. My kids started saying, at the end of every meal, “Thank you! Mama! You sure are a ‘good cooker’!”
But, I soon learned that my husband could eat really fast and he wasn’t one for talking around the dinner table either. Haha. I was often left with three kids to finish up eating. Once dad left the table, we would talk.
I wasn’t really happy about it, but didn’t say much for fear of confrontation.
The years went by, and is typical with busy teenagers, meals were often missing family members, or taken sitting in front of the TV. Again, not to my liking, but never argued about. Oh, occasionally I put my foot down and insisted everyone stay at the table TOGETHER to finish a meal and help clean up but that got less and less.
I did not realize I had a chip on my shoulder about this.
I remember feeling angry and rejected if my husband was late for dinner. I had hungry kids (and me) to feed and couldn’t wait. (You know the dreaded five o’clock hour)
We ate without him many nights. I would stew about it, deep inside, resentful. Why was it SO important!? He wasn’t rejecting us! He was working late.
For me, this critical need I had to ‘show love’ through food giving was not happening. I turned all the mixed up feelings inward and they churned up a tornado. Unable to vent this, I frequently had an ugly face, pouty lip, silent treatment and a badddd attitude….
Here I sit, at the other end of the years, with a backwards vantage point.
My precious husband. As stubborn as I was to try to cling to my history, he was just as stubbornly holding onto me. It really took me years to realize that.
Our lives happen, we navigate the trail the best we know how.; Flawed and foolish, loving one another in our clumsy hugs and sloppy kisses.
That conversation the other night made me chuckle, not because of pain and bitterness, but because NOW I can see how far we have come.
That doesn’t mean I don’t sit there by myself eating many meals alone. I’m still a grazer lollygagging through a meal, wanting to chat, AND hungry at five o’clock. My husband still eats fast.
Food. All the ‘stuff’ around it. Still something to chew on.
This is who we are. We like each other. And it’s really okay…. It’s PERFECT