Sitting at The Table with Orphans
My dad is such a good cook he could open a restaurant. At home, we eat like kings; nutrient dense whole food, organic meat, fresh picked vegetables from the farmers market. I always look forward to sitting around our kitchen table to savour another one of “Kimmer’s Specials”.
I definitely received my love for cooking from my dad. Over several years, I mastered the art of gluten free, dairy free and sugar free creations and was often praised for making healthy food “taste so good”. Experimenting in the kitchen became a creative outlet and a great opportunity to practice hospitality. It also became a subtle way for me to control what food was served at the table.
I took pride in being disciplined with the food I ate and maintaining a consistent exercise routine. My life revolved around the conscious decision to pursue health and vitality, allowing little to deter me from maintaining this lifestyle.
Though I was sometimes convicted by the way my elitist attitude toward food kept me from entering into community (i.e. sitting at someone else’s table), I thought it was better, until I sat at a table with orphans.
—
In the Philippines I lived with 30-some children who were victims of abuse, neglect, abandonment and other effects of extreme poverty. Though some still had living parents, the government labeled them as orphans and assigned them a new home at Arms of Love.
Arms of Love has four homes on one property, two girls homes and two boys home, each with about eight children. Some live with biological siblings but all become brothers and sisters.
Each home has a loving set of house parents, faithful couples with children of their own, who have chosen to give up a life of independence to move into a new community dedicated to raising orphans as legitimate children.
Each day our team would pair off to eat lunch and dinner with the kids. Unlike back home, I didn’t look forward to these meals.
With a budget of $1 per meal, the contrast couldn’t be more stark. A plate of white rice and a piece of fried spam. Or a plate of white rice and deep fried sausage with egg. Rich in trans fat, poor in nutrients. High in salt, low in fibre. Vegetables were a rarity and fruit was a treat. (Filipino mangos were food from heaven!)
One day I was scheduled to eat with my favourite group of girls. As I sat down at the table I was served a bowl of sweet spaghetti with chunks of hotdog meat, canned corned beef and processed cheese; a Filipino dish the kids love.
The girls were so excited for me to try one of their favourite meals but it was everything in me not to run from the table. It had been years since I ate a bowl of glutinous pasta, the thought of it made me nauseous.
I was caught in another moment of tension; stuck between dishonouring Asian culture, which is heavily centred around food and hospitality, and protecting myself.
Before the Race I had no trouble rejecting community to defend my own self interest if it meant keeping in sync with my version of healthy living. But something about being a guest in this home, sitting at the table with these girls, changed my perspective.
For several months leading upto this point, God had been speaking to me about what it means to live as a daughter in The Father’s House, and specifically, to sit at The Father’s Table. (below are lyrics from a Laura Rhinehart’s song Father’s House).
“My table is your table,
You don’t sit at a different table than me.
You don’t eat the crumbs off the floor,
You eat the feast that I’ve prepared for you.
I sit with you, I gladly sit with you, my beloved.”
In the past, I would have politely declined the bowl of pasta, called on the appetite of a teammate to rescue me or come up with a cleaver reason to excuse myself from the table. But this moment was different.
As little 8-year-old Christine bowed her head and thanked God for the food, I concluded, if sweet spaghetti with chunks of hotdog meat, canned corned beef and processed cheese was good enough for her, then it was good enough for me.
I ate the food that was generously prepared and set before me. I didn’t feel great afterward, but it didn’t kill me either.
In the eyes of society these girls are viewed as orphans but I had come to love them as little sisters. They, too, are The Father’s daughters and in His Kingdom, we sit at the same table.
Most days on the Race I face this tension of having to eat foods that are counterproductive to my ideal definition of health but the more I am invited to share a table with the poor, the more I see God’s heart for true Kingdom community.
I didn’t get a picture of the famous spaghetti but here are some pictures of other memorable moments. Thanks again for all your love and prayers.
