As we enter the season of festive gatherings with friends, family and an abundance of food, I pause to consider the relationship that I’ve had with food over the years. I must admit, it’s been a bit of a love-hate affair. Between my own life-long struggle with the scale and having a family full of people with food allergies and sensitivities, food shopping and preparation has been a source of stress for me. And I concede that because of the food allergies, some foods in my house really are considered evil, like the cartoon suggests. Ironically though, carbs are the most beloved.
My attitude towards food changed for the better in 2009, when a small group of people who barely knew me, rallied around me and my family to help prepare meals for us as I went through chemotherapy. We had lived in our neighborhood for only six months when I discovered a lump in my abdomen. Tests revealed it was Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. While our heads swirled over the test results and what to do next, my husband Evan and I agreed that we wouldn’t share the news with anyone until we were ready and had a plan.
The next morning after my diagnosis, Evan walked our daughter who was a kindergartener at the time, to the bus stop–while I was home preparing breakfast for our toddler son. When he returned, he informed me that he had just told all of the ladies at the bus stop that I had cancer. I looked at him, a bit stupefied. I recall that I was holding half of a bagel in my hand, and I considered chucking it at him. Instead of using my carbs as a weapon, I complained loudly, “What happened to not telling anyone until we’re ready?”
“We need to be ready NOW,” he said. “We’re going to need help with this one.”
I don’t really like asking people for help. I never have, and Evan knew it. Perhaps it’s ego or stubborn self-reliance from growing up as a latch-key kid; it’s definitely a topic that deserves a deeper dive for me. But it turns out that Evan was right. It was a time to let that self-reliance go. We were entering new and scary territory.
As the weeks trudged on, we received the help that Evan spoke of. Family members took turns living with us and helping care for the kids, since on some days I was too exhausted to even lift my son. On the most grueling days of treatment, neighbors signed up to bring us meals. They lovingly prepared their best dishes to share with us. Roast chicken, meatloaf, pasta, soups, salads, chili, bread, and delicious desserts all lived up to their name, “comfort food.” What I began to realize though, was that the comfort wasn’t just about the food. Those neighbors of mine were living St. Paul’s command, “Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor” (1Cor 10:24). The food they brought became a catalyst to share their stories of hope with me. As I humbly accepted each dish from them, I also accepted their stories. They shared how their father, sister, aunt or friend had battled cancer and wanted me to know that they felt my same struggle. I came to cherish not only each dish of food, but also each story that went along with it. The food was healing for the body and the stories were life-giving for the soul. When I went into remission almost six months later, I was so moved by their love and thoughtfulness, I wrote this poem and mailed it to each one of them as a sign of my gratitude. (Home Again by Lisa F. Lee)
As we enter this season of gatherings with friends and family, and dig our spoons into an array of wonderful dishes, let us be exceedingly grateful for the opportunities and moments of grace that it provides. As we break bread in our homes and eat together, let us do it with glad and sincere hearts (Acts 2:46). I am thankful for the time to share stories of healing, heartache and laughter with my friends and loved ones. I am thankful that you took the time to read and share in this one small piece of my story, and I pray that you are blessed in some way by it. And yes, I am very grateful for the food–most especially the carbs.
