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Food is Love BY K R I STI N ARMSTRONG I llu s tr atio n by Joy G a ll agh er Food can be a lot of things. It can be sustenance, a crutch, an
addiction, an issue, a means of connection, a link to generations past, a source of joy, a sign of holidays, a flavor of childhood, a reminder to take good care of ourselves and each other. Recently, I witnessed food acting out perhaps its greatest, most noble role—food as comfort. A dear friend of mine lost her husband tragically and suddenly, and I watched our community close in around her and her children, filling her home, her heart and her kitchen to overflowing. People arrived in a constant stream, and not knowing what else to do or say, they brought food. Lots of it. There were breakfast tacos, donuts, pastries, BBQ brisket and peppered turkey, beans and potato salad, Chick-fil-A nuggets, sandwich trays, cookie platters, chips and salsa, candy, almonds and plenty of beer and wine. This is southern for: your heart may be broken, but y’all will never, ever go hungry. This is a beautiful translation of love. It means the same thing it means when I pack my kids' lunches every day: I haven’t forgotten you. I am with you even when I’m not with you. May this act of devotion sustain you. I care about how you feel today. Don’t forget where you came from. If you lose your center, here’s a taste of home. It’s interesting to me that the times we most need to be fed are the times when we have no appetite at all. When we are numb, delirious, exhausted, grieving or ill and can’t feel or heed the normal signals that tell us to pause and refuel. Lightheadedness prevails and hunger pangs diffuse into an overall ache, and we go on fumes until we cannot go anymore. Unless someone kind makes us a plate and sits with us, watching while we eat. Strength takes fuel. Healing requires help. It also requires endurance. Just like so many people bring so many things in the immediacy surrounding a situation, sometimes the finest gift of all is dinner…two months later.
When we can’t taste anything, we need people who instruct us to eat anyway. We need healthy people who remind us that other people are counting on us to be strong and well-nourished. What we cannot do for ourselves, we can often be inspired to do for others. This is how and why brokenhearted mothers and grieving people everywhere can get out of bed and remain in the land of the living…because they aren’t doing it for themselves. Sometimes, you have to eat and keep eating until one day your appetite returns. You have to smile and keep smiling until the day you are surprised by the presence of joy. Those who come bearing food, those who are brave enough to step into the vortex of someone else’s pain are like torchbearers for the soul. Their light shines on the path that eventually leads through and beyond, as they touch their flame of faith to the waning wick of the weary. I know our friend and her children will be fed. I know they will eventually find their joy, and that they will find reasons to smile in the meantime. I know that while their loss may never make sense, they will make peace with the questions. I know that in the face of tremendous pain, they will cultivate unprecedented resilience and unwavering faith. And I know, from the vantage point of adulthood, that those children will not only look back upon the memory of an amazing father, but also recall with absolute awe the raw courage and unfailing fortitude of their mother. At our very finest, good people are like ants. Even though we are very small in the face of big things, by our collective strength we can carry many times our own weight. I saw ants marching into our friend’s house, carrying food, paper towels, clothing, comfort, strength and memories. And I saw ants crawl out, each transporting a tiny piece of a burden that no family could ever carry alone.
i l lu s t r at i o n by j oy g a l l ag h er For a limite d- e dit i on p r int , c onta c t jo ygall agh e r@g m ail .c om .
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2013
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