Glutton - Part 2

When I think about my chubby childhood, it's easy for me to see why the idea of 'a diet' was so enticing to me. I remember the first time I knew I was fat and also knew that fat must be bad. One of my uncles made a comment about my weight. I could not have been more than ten years old. (It would be years before I realized that this particular uncle was just a butthead in general). My mom, who was usually a very meek person, completely went off on my uncle for his comment. That's how I knew fat must be bad. I remember being so ashamed but also just really confused. My little brother was shaped like me. My dad was overweight. In fact my dad's whole family was overweight. I could not figure out why it wasn't ok for me to be chubby. Especially because I had no idea how I had gotten that way in the first place. Until I discovered the diet, I felt just overwhelming despair. How could I get unfat when I had no idea what had made me fat to begin with?

As I look back I know that the beginnings of my addiction started at a feast.    Some generic celebration that could be from either side of my ridiculously large extended family.  There is so much food.  A whole table filled with desserts.  And there I am.  Maybe I am 8, or 6, or 10.  It doesn’t matter.  The scene never changes.  I am a picky eater.  That seems to be a very common thing for people to describe their child as today.  The modern parent seems almost proud of the picky child.  They have more refined tastes.  They are discriminating.  But three decades ago, a chubby child who refused to eat your broccoli casserole was barely tolerable.  I survived most of the family gatherings of my childhood by stealing from the bread basket.  I would pass through the long line of aunts, uncles and cousins to emerge with a plate of mashed potatoes, perhaps a slice of meat and then my saving grace, a margarine smeared roll (this was the eighties and people actually thought butter was bad). 

 

And each and every meal I prayed would pass without someone commenting on the contents of my plate. 

It never did. 

“How can you survive on just THAT?” 

"Why don’t you just try ‘fill in the blank’? "

"How do you know you don’t like it?"

Always the same questions over and over, year after year.  My addiction to food did not start with a craving for nourishment.  What I hungered for most of all was peace.  The blissful state where I could eat a plate of food without any emotion attached to the process.  I still long for that all these years later.

 

My faith is real.  I know, without a doubt, that the end of my journey will be a feast also.  A heavenly celebration where food has it’s rightful place.  Nourishment for a body to be enjoyed in the way that God intended.  I will eat every bite in full view of the one for whom I was created.  I will eat slowly.  I will not look over my shoulder between each bite.  I will not glance uneasily around to see if anyone at the table is watching me.  Because, finally, I will know as I am fully known.  And I will rest with the Prince of Peace.

But surely God wants me to have some peace on Earth.  Surely He wants me to put food in it's rightful place during the years I have left to live.  Surely He intends for me to be free.