Psalm 63:5
My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
What timing… I just broke a 40ish-hour fast, on a Friday (so no meat), during Lent (so no dairy), and although I thoroughly enjoyed my eggy tuna salad with what seemed like an excessive amount of mayo, I don’t feel full. I’m not hungry, exactly, but I am certainly not satiated. The King James Version translates ‘a rich feast’ as ‘marrow and fatness’, and what I wouldn’t give for some marrow right now.
My ‘normal’ diet is high in fatness, high in protein, and low in carbs. I changed it up during Lent by cutting out my main food group (dairy), and I don’t really like it. It’s hard to replace those calories with the same macro makeup; the one source of fat I have left is olive oil, but most of that goes to anointing my head (Matthew 6:17, paraphrase).
I’m eating less fat and more carbs. Instead of my normal snack of some yogurt or a chunk of cheese, I had some dried figs and an apple. Biblically, these are not good choices. Jesus talked a lot about fig trees, but never nicely. And an apple… I know it’s not mentioned by name in Genesis, but no one ever precipitated the Fall of Man with a slice of Gruyère.
My stomach is not satisfied, because I have not feasted richly. There’s an emptiness inside that is unfamiliar – and exactly what I need.
I was struck this morning by how unaffected I was by this fast. Yes, when I walked up the hill with two heavy bags of groceries, I was a bit more out of breath than usual; I was noticeably not as strong in my workout as I usually am. But other than that, I was fine. I am fine. I am surrounded by so much abundance at every single level – from the country I live in to the life I lead to the layer of fat that can fuel my body once that fig wears off.
I can skip meals. I can skip paychecks. I can skip (as in joyfully running). My body works well, I’m comfortably off, and I am so, so incredible grateful. There are so many people in the world – even in my own little corner of it – that are not this comfortable, and I can feel that much more acutely when I’m hungry. That’s precisely why I do it: Fasting is hard, but not that hard, and it makes room in my gut for compassion.
— MeganPrestonMeyer
My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
What timing… I just broke a 40ish-hour fast, on a Friday (so no meat), during Lent (so no dairy), and although I thoroughly enjoyed my eggy tuna salad with what seemed like an excessive amount of mayo, I don’t feel full. I’m not hungry, exactly, but I am certainly not satiated. The King James Version translates ‘a rich feast’ as ‘marrow and fatness’, and what I wouldn’t give for some marrow right now.
My ‘normal’ diet is high in fatness, high in protein, and low in carbs. I changed it up during Lent by cutting out my main food group (dairy), and I don’t really like it. It’s hard to replace those calories with the same macro makeup; the one source of fat I have left is olive oil, but most of that goes to anointing my head (Matthew 6:17, paraphrase).
I’m eating less fat and more carbs. Instead of my normal snack of some yogurt or a chunk of cheese, I had some dried figs and an apple. Biblically, these are not good choices. Jesus talked a lot about fig trees, but never nicely. And an apple… I know it’s not mentioned by name in Genesis, but no one ever precipitated the Fall of Man with a slice of Gruyère.
My stomach is not satisfied, because I have not feasted richly. There’s an emptiness inside that is unfamiliar – and exactly what I need.
I was struck this morning by how unaffected I was by this fast. Yes, when I walked up the hill with two heavy bags of groceries, I was a bit more out of breath than usual; I was noticeably not as strong in my workout as I usually am. But other than that, I was fine. I am fine. I am surrounded by so much abundance at every single level – from the country I live in to the life I lead to the layer of fat that can fuel my body once that fig wears off.
I can skip meals. I can skip paychecks. I can skip (as in joyfully running). My body works well, I’m comfortably off, and I am so, so incredible grateful. There are so many people in the world – even in my own little corner of it – that are not this comfortable, and I can feel that much more acutely when I’m hungry. That’s precisely why I do it: Fasting is hard, but not that hard, and it makes room in my gut for compassion.
— MeganPrestonMeyer
I so enjoyed reading this--it was like a rich feast in itself! Your gratitude and resilience are clear, and I got hungry for your sandwich!
ReplyDelete--Kathleen (Babs)