We were dining with extended family at the American Flatbread pizzeria in Middlebury, VT when my brother-in-law directed my gaze to a large wooden plaque hanging over the brick oven at the back of the restaurant. Inscribed in the sign was this: “Food Remembers”.

{Wait for it . . .}

As conscious as I try to be about my food and where it comes from (I mean, I’ve seen Food Inc. and a bundle of other like documentaries and I do eat my share of fermented veggies.), for the life of me, while I was staring at those two words, I couldn’t think of one thing that “Food Remembers”. Turning back to my sister and her husband, I asked them, “So, what exactly does food remember?”

I am grateful that my delightfully-hippie relations didn’t look at me like I was stupid. Instead they responded—almost in unison—as if they had a speech rehearsed just in time for their visiting urban-kin: “Food remembers how it was planted, grown, harvested, purchased, prepared and eaten . . .” The sentence trailed off when the seven children in our midst interrupted with their boisterous behavior and the conversation dropped before it ever really started. But a tiny seed had been planted softly inside me.

:::

There’s something I believe so strong, something I would hang my entire life on and it’s simply, completely this: we were created for intimate–such intimate–relationship. Created for a deep love-communion and peace-friendship with God, fellow humanity, ourselves and the created order. And something awoke from sleep in me when “Food Remembers” started hovering around in my molecular makeup. I comprehended that I had never really cared for or fostered an intimacy in my relationship to this dimension of the created order, namely: food.

Food of all things! Should this physical fodder get that much of my intention? Can we :: should we :: be intimate with it?

In the process of my get-close-with-what-I-eat quest I read this in Yoga of Eating:

To see that each food represents not one but a composite of many vibrations, consider two heads of broccoli. Their vibrations represent the totality of their history and production, in addition to the innate nutritive characteristic of the plant species itself. Imagine that the first head of broccoli was produced in a huge industrial-type farm that relies on intensive use of groundwater, fossil fuels, pesticides, and chemical fertilizer. This farm engages in practices which poison the water and the soil; its produce is harvested by exploited migrant labor and trucked to supermarkets thousands of miles away. Broccoli with such a history will have very different vibrations than a broccoli grown in an organic garden. One head of broccoli might be part of the destruction of the planet, another, part of its renewal. The two heads of broccoli share some vibrations in common, while others are distinctly different.

Perhaps all these vibrations are biochemically encoded in the broccoli, perhaps not. Current scientific research certainly confirms that agricultural chemicals and depleted soils affect the makeup of a plant. But could a chemical analysis determine whether the laborer that picked the broccoli was treated fairly? This seems ridiculous. But it is the premise of this book that, whether biochemically or through some other mechanism, the entire history of a food is somehow bound up within it.

And the questions must be asked because I think there is a deeper story, a story that reveals intricacies untold, pulsing like a real heartbeat inside the life of all edibles.

Do you believe that every living organism has capacity for information retention? That it matters what we store into the atoms of our food? Do you think that where we choose to purchase our food is connected to a much larger and longer system of memory—all the way back to an exploited migrant worker? When we eat something, are we eating everything that happened to make that food come into existence—thereby affirming a certain version of the world?

Another thought:

Suppose you eat a banana from a South American plantation, located on destroyed rain forest land wrested violently from indigenous tribes, who now labor at starvation wages, using pesticides that pollute the ecosystem, shipped thousands of miles using polluting oil-fueled ships, by a company that puts small independent growers out of business through corrupt practices. By eating a banana, you ever so slightly reinforce this state of affairs, and make it part of your reality and experience. You are saying yes to such a world.

Or suppose you eat chicken from a battery-raised hen, who suffered her whole life in a tiny, crowded, filthy cage, pumped full of hormones and antibiotics, painfully debeaked to prevent her from wounding her cellmates in her extreme stress … raised, basically, in Hell. Each time you eat such a chicken, you affirm the hellish suffering that brought it to you. Incrementally, bit by bit, you invite that experience into your reality.

Ask yourself now, what kind of world are we saying yes to with our modern food system? When our food production system throws nature out of balance, is it any wonder that our lives too spiral out of balance? When our food system is based on the prolonged suffering of humans, animals, plants, and soil, is it any wonder that we often feel consumed by loneliness, estranged from the world? When we impose unnatural order on plants and animals through monocropping, genetic engineering, and so forth, is it any wonder that we too feel channeled and restricted, the natural flowering of our souls contorted and corralled into the unnatural, self-betraying mold society imposes?

Preparing, eating and sharing meals is such a substantial serving of routine life and church happens in our house whenever we invite people to circle around our kitchen table and we bow heads together and know that every act in this physical world has been designed so that we, the-Christ-people, might do all things in remembrance of Him, our daily Bread.

I hunger now for a surplus of connection to the entire food-communion process and have recently found myself going all gentle inside when I’m preparing meals, my hands infused with reverence and love while the celery is between my fingers. Where did it come from? What is it’s story? I’ll wonder and say a prayer because I didn’t buy it local, but I wish I could have and the recognition comes ——-> This relational journey with food has made me realize that I’m not okay anymore with the reality I’ve been saying “yes” to. That I want to be more thoughtfully-intimate and make different sacrifices so that I can engage more honorably with what goes into the nourishment of my physical body, the bodies of my family and friends. I want it to be an act of worship to incorporate intimacy with Christ in all things—even this, the meal-making. And when I can’t afford the delicacies of local, farm-grown? I know the prayers of blessing and grace that we cover our cuisine with will cover where we can’t financially extend ourselves, that God’s love covers the multitude of our shortcomings. And yet, I still want to do as much I can to bring the future glory of heaven into this simple act of my food-companionship and thereby, I believe, relieve some of creation’s groaning as she eagerly awaits the day when she will join God’s children in the final freedom from death and decay.

I would love to hear your thoughts . . . How relevant is this conversation to daily life and culture? How does it relate to our faith and family?

(thank you, my dear erika… please visit E at her blog, The Life Artist)

I was that girl you are trying to save. The one who is all rib and screaming and slamming of door, the one who once cuddled in your lap, who now wants to die. And this is killing you.

And I wish I could hug you now and say, while I was that girl, I’m now a woman who wants desperately to live.

I was 13 and five foot six, 60 pounds, purple with hypothermia and a miracle, the doctors said, but all I could see was the mistake God had made in making me.

And it was four years of not eating. Four years of insulting the mother who home-schooled me, the pastor-father who worked day and night to put bread and granola on the table and it wasn’t enough, I told them.

And I wish I could hug you and tell you that it is enough. You are enough, and one day you’ll laugh with your daughter again. One day you’ll sit across the table from her and share a meal with her, for we serve a God who rocks at redemption.

A God who celebrates the losers, but he often waits and waits until we’re forced to give up and then, only then, does he step in, so just rest, friend. Rest and get your strength back and trust and hope for a new day is dawning.

And I can’t explain why I decided to eat again, except for the way I saw myself clearly one day for the skeleton I was. And I wanted then, more than anything, to be normal. To go to school and to like boys and to write papers and go to slumber parties and to stop counting calories.

It was never about food, and everybody has them. Scapegoats. But eventually, we’re left emptier for the trying.

And in the end, it’s love we’re starving for.

It’s easy to not want our children to feel something for the pain it causes them. But we need to let them cry, and to hold them when they do. And to not fix.

And they’ll know their sadness means something, that they are worth the feeling.

And this girl, the one who’s writing you, she’s now in love with her parents.

Don’t give up. Better things lie ahead. So rest, and trust, and hope.

In Him Alone,
e.

(this post is also appearing here, at dear Amy Sullivan’s site, this monday…)

(I’m excited to tell you that my book, “Chasing Silhouettes: How to Help a Loved One Who’s Battling an Eating Disorder” has been picked up by a publisher, and will be available in a few months both as an e-book and in print… I will keep you posted. Love, e.)

I felt a curious mix of emotions the first time I saw her. Taken with her beauty and elegance – the way she gracefully tip-toed her way around the water’s edge – there was a sense of sadness for her solitary state. She was the only one. Surrounded by ducks and birds of various “feathers,” she stood alone on impossibly long, thin legs – clothed in white.

For many days she remained aloof from the others, but life can get very lonely when you choose that path. Gradually, with dainty, timid steps, she began to approach some of the others. The ducks seemed to want to keep themselves to themselves – not willing to make room for the awkward looking stranger. The grackles were another story. They were happy to admit this beautiful dancer into their little circle.

She seemed to enjoy their company. Certainly she was in no hurry to leave. I wondered, as I watched them interact, if she thought she was one of them. Did she see herself with short legs, black feathers, and stubby neck? She went to great lengths to be accepted, walking where they walked and perching where she had seen them perch – never knowing, perhaps, how beautiful she is. Could she have had just one glimpse of her own reflection, she would have known.

There have been times when I’ve longed to fit in, to be just like everyone else – forgetting that I am unique. The Father has made each of us according to His design, and if we could just catch a reflection of who we are in His eyes we would know how very beautiful we are.

“I will give thanks to Thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;”
Psalm 139: 14a

(thank you, dear Linda, for these wise and tender words… please visit Linda’s beautiful site here)

i wrote the majority of my eBook in a week during the summer.

i knew immediately what it was i would be writing about – all spring there was this recurring theme of pulling the little girl inside out of hiding. allowing her a voice, a chance to speak to me and an opportunity for me to listen.

it’s a hard lesson to learn.

through these exercises, i came to accept my broken relationship with food and how memories of my past fueled these tendencies to binge.

pairing these two things together took 25 years.

25 years of turning to food for comfort.
25 years of hiding my emotions in a milkshake.
25 years of fearing God instead of falling into an intimate trust.

it was reading a book in which the author stated that our feelings and habits toward food begin as early as four years old that i broke.

sitting in my counselor’s office, i whispered the words i think i have an eating disorder and she began telling me that the method of survival when i was younger – my life jacket that got me through the day – had now become my straight jacket.

in other words, what gave me relief from pain before was now keeping me from experiencing true freedom.

and when i shared with her that i remember hiding in the food pantry shoving as many cookies in my mouth as i could muster, she smiled.

“of course you did. it’s how you found love. but now you have resources to fight it.”

and i do fight it. daily.

it’s been proven that the very dendrites sparked at the moment of hunger are the same dendrites sparked and used in moments of rejection and despair.

slowly, these automatic reflexes are trading out for normal ones. i know where to go now – i know i can call a friend, know i can whisper weakness to my husband.

even more: i know how to listen to the little girl.

here’s the thing – for so long, my response to emotional pain of any kind reflected a life lived numb. i’d silent her pleas for attention, my heart growing cold to the tiny finger raising an objection.

writing this book was a small step in giving her a voice.

it’s not long and it embraces the messiness of my past few months of healing. but this is why i feel it’s so important – i’m not healed completely – i still struggle and i still have days where i fight the voices telling me i’m not good enough. it only takes a second – whether it be words read or a conversation overheard – for me to reach for numbing agents.

but God.

it’s in these moments i cling to grace and remember the words of a wise friend – baby steps count, elora. always.

and i turn from running, take a deep breath, and let Beauty wash over me one more time.

buy elora nicole’s new eBook, ‘When Beauty Pursues You,’ here.

in many ways, i am glad i have boys.

i am worried i would mess up a girl. i am worried she would see me worrying and think she needed to worry too: about life, about God maybe not being as good as she hoped he was, about boys and school and everything in life that weighs a person down.

and i’m worried these fears would make her try to hurt herself, for her not being able to save the world.

yet boys are people too and they have feelings and hearts and what it comes down to is this: i need to stop worrying, so i don’t mess up my children.

i need to learn to trust God more and take myself more lightly. i need to learn to laugh at myself. to take that shame and fear and turn them into humility and hope.

and in some strange way, i think i need to think LESS of myself so i stop thinking i could ever save the world, and start thinking a whole heck of a lot MORE of God.

less of me. more of him. less of me. more of him.

this is my mantra this week.

this is my mantra for life, and one of these days, i’ll stop worrying about how much i worry, and i’ll learn to just live.

i had a reader ask me how to handle the holidays… the stuffing of turkey and face and stocking and the plates full of goodies full of hard: hard choices, these, knowing how and what to eat, and do any of us really know? and i think it boils down to this:

perspective. we need to remember, christmas is not about food. christmas is about a baby born to save us from all of the sorrow that makes us want to lose ourselves in food. christmas is about the God-turning-human to deliver us from all of the madness of a world gone wrong, the madness that makes us find the very gift of food confusing.

i listen to my husband, a man for whom food has never been anything but a tool for celebration, and i long for his eyes. the ones that see food as a gift.

if trent wants to eat, he eats. he listens to his body, and it tells him what it wants–protein, carbs, apparently no vegetables unless they’re raw, and pie and when he’s full, he’s full. and then he turns and leaves his plate where it belongs–in the sink–and he enjoys the rest of his day without thinking about food once until the next time he’s hungry.

so this christmas, let’s remember we were born for more than this world, for more than food, and to see food as just this: a gift. our bodies, tents of skin, which house the holy spirit…

as mary became home to Jesus, we can become home to Christ dwelling amongst us this christmas. so eat as though pregnant with God. eat as though feeding the holy spirit. eat as though you truly believe you are worth it: as though you believe God would have sent his son to be born, and to die, even if you were the last person on earth.

for he loves you that much.

so let’s love ourselves enough to eat.

I remember the first time I made myself throw up. I was fourteen. His tongue had been forced down my throat. These were things that you couldn’t talk to your parents about. Things that teenagers accepted and bragged on yet I was dying within. I was the good girl. The one that everyone made fun of because I was going to wait until marriage.

But this guy, he knew my weak areas. He was a pastors kid–just–like–me.

I remember the pain that was in the pit of my stomach. A pain that wouldn’t go away. Journaling about the abuse usually relieved it but this time, this time it was greater. I needed someone. My friends didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just “do it” and get it over with. His face taunted me. I became claustrophobic after realizing he was stronger than me.

I drew blood once.

Being pinned against a bus window, I pushed him away yet he didn’t release. It was that night. The night he began spreading the rumors, the night he got fed up hearing the word no…that I purged. I purged until all the insides were empty.

I felt relief. I didn’t realize at that moment how addicting such things could be. If I didn’t know how to speak, if I didn’t know who to talk to, the cold tile of the bathroom floor became my confessional.

My heart hurts now. Now that I’m talking about that moment. The moment that if only I had had a voice. A voice comfortable and unafraid to speak. If only I had been brave. I hear some people talk about eating disorders and the control with wanting to look a certain way, be a certain size.

For me–I too met an eating disorder.

Instead of food as the enemy it was authenticity. I binged on the shadows and purged reality.

(thank you for being so transparent, dear heather… bless you.)

staring at my budding breasts,
but different than the boys in school did–
and i wished to be invisible

most people think at twelve
you don’t know much about the world,
i knew enough to hate it–

and it was so easy– i just stopped
& everything with me disappeared,
menses, breasts, the pain,

i was a warrior in battle, riding on the wind,
about to win, and ready to knock over
everyone who came too close–
i built tight walls with food i
never touched.

It was winter when we visited my grandma,
small and fragile,
lying in that bed in hospital,
lungs filled with water &

i struggled,
wrecked by weakness i could hardly stand
nor cry or scream or suffer,
not even hating the injustice cause

i’d already died

and in the rearview mirror saw my face
but didn’t recognize–

That day, the warrior dropped

and left me nothing
but thirty kilo skin and angst with lungs still breathing,

somehow– i survived

and on my long way back
i wept for days

(this gripping prose, from claudia, at jaywalking the moon… thank you, friend…)