The noon siren wailed, telling us it was lunchtime at Kent Academy, the boarding school for missionary’s children in central Nigeria.

“I’ve been waiting for hours to eat,” I said to the other first-grade girl next to me as I closed my desk drawer. “I’m starving.”

She crinkled her eyebrows. “Are we having something good for lunch?”

I shrugged. “The food here tastes weird to me, and I really miss my mom and dad. No matter how hungry I get, I can’t eat much because my throat feels like it’s filled with tiny rocks.”

My friend nodded. “I miss sitting with my mom, dad, and little brother at every meal.”

“Me too,” I said. Then we rushed down the hall, out the doors, and across the playground. At the dining hall, we came to a sudden stop.

Dozens of first-through-ninth-grade students crowded outside the doors. I stood on tiptoes, straining to see over the tall kids in front.

A big boy turned to us. “Today’s the day we change tables and sit somewhere new in the dining hall,” he said.

“Ugh!” My mind raced, and I frowned at my friend. “It feels like we just did this.” My heart sank at the thought of leaving the comfort of friends and starting over again with unknown people. “Do we have to do this every two weeks?”

My friend grabbed my hand and squeezed hard. “I think so. But I was just getting used to the two boys at our little table. Now I’m worried about who I’m going to sit with.”

I patted my friend’s sweaty hand. “It’s scary sitting with new people. I wish I could sit with you for the whole year.”

Moving with the crowd, we came to the double doors. A tall, thin, dark-haired man stopped us and asked, “What grade are you in?”

“First grade,” we chimed in together.

He handed us each a small slip of paper with a number on it. Then we stepped into the dining hall.

“I’m in Section 8.” I looked around the endless room. There were rows upon rows of small tables that fit four people each. A grouping of four tables was called a “section.” A section was like my family for two weeks. But they weren’t really my family; they were strangers I lived with.

“There’s a sign for 8 in the middle of the room,” I said. “What section are you in?”

“16.” She pointed. “Way in the far corner.”

My chin quivered. “It was fun to have you at my table. I don’t want to move.”

Tears brimmed in my friend’s eyes. “Goodbye,” she said. Then she waved and walked away.

My shoulders slumped as I shuffled to my new table. A second-grade girl already stood there.

“Hi,” she said. “Changing tables always takes so long. I can’t wait to sit down. Are you hungry?”

I nodded. I remembered seeing her laughing and joking with her friends in the hallway at the dorm. Now she was loud and cheerful, but I couldn’t say a word because of the tight band I felt around my chest.

We stood behind our chairs. One table in each section always had kids in first and second grade, including two boys and two girls. The other three tables in a section had grades three and four, five and six, and junior high kids. I hope this chatty, second-grade girl will be nice to me.

Just then, a hefty, fifth-grade boy with blond hair walked toward me. I recognized him. Yesterday he threw a playground ball and laughed when it hit me. I gripped the back of my chair and squinted my eyes, trying to look tough.

The bully veered and walked on past. I breathed a sigh of relief and released my tight grip.

Finally, the uncle announced over the loudspeaker, “Everyone may be seated now.” He always said “may,” but I thought he should say “can.”

After the uncle prayed, the junior high kids served my food. They chose how much to put on my plate which was scary because a lot of the food smelled bad and tasted yucky. Sometimes the servers gave me too much, but I still had to finish everything.

I ate a few bites. Then an auntie walked by.

She stopped, turned, and said, “Debbie. Look at you.”

My fork froze in mid-air, and my pulse rate sped up.

“Your napkin is still on the table. You know it should be in your lap.” She lifted the mint-green, cotton square and shook it. “Now you have to wear it like a bib.”

My heart pounded as she took two corners of the cloth and tied them tight behind my neck. Some of my hair got caught in the knot, and it pinched as I hung my head. Hot tears dropped onto my brown, corduroy skirt.

She stepped back. “Leave it on during the whole meal. In the future, you’ll remember to place it in your lap.”

My tablemates were silent, and all I could hear was the clanking of forks on plates. Lifting my head, I picked up my fork and put a bite of beef in my mouth. I chewed and chewed but it took a long time before I could swallow.

Someone from the next table pointed and said, “Look at the baby with a bib.”

During the rest of lunchtime, the kids at my table chatted as if nothing strange had happened.

Finally, we all finished. The uncle excused our section, and I ripped off the hated napkin. Racing outside, I sucked in great gulps of air.

My friend appeared beside me, and I told her what happened. “I sure wish you had been at my table. You would have reminded me about my napkin.”

She slipped her arm around through mine. “Yes, I would have,” she said.

I breathed a hopeful sigh. “Maybe we’ll be together again at the next Change Table Day.”

Looking Back on my Childhood

The bi-weekly event, Change Table Day, was a huge occasion for everyone. Many of the kids found it exciting because they enjoyed getting to know other people and having a variety of tablemates.

However, for me, it was a time of great insecurity. The specter of changing tables hung over me whenever I anticipated the day of upheaval. One of my biggest fears regarding changing tables stemmed from the fact I didn’t know how my tablemates would treat me. Some of the boys were pranksters and goofed off. Some were just mean. A common trick was to spill milk and tip the tablecloth around the corner, so the liquid ended up in my lap. I was desperate to fit in, and yet, everything was so far from normal for me.

Another reason the change made me anxious was I didn’t like much of the food, and I had no control of the size of the portions on my plate. Yet, I had to finish everything. The junior high kids who served it often gave me too much of items I hated. On the other hand, I was afraid to tell them what I liked, because they frequently joked and gave me only a tiny spoonful of a favorite food.

I asked in our K.A. Facebook group if anyone knows the reason why we had to change tables, but no one did. Was it a way to control the kids, so we couldn’t form cliques? Or was it so we got to know other kids?

What I Know Now

In general, the atmosphere in the dining hall unsettled me with the hustle of activity, buzz of conversation, and clatter of dishes. I longed to be back in the familiarity of home with my parents and siblings.

Even today, nervous butterflies race around in my stomach when I think about Change Table Day. Being so far from home and family, I needed stability, not a new seating arrangement every two weeks. I would have loved to be seated with my brothers and sister, but they were in different grades.

I still get nervous in new situations. But I’ve learned to push through, do what needs to be done, and reach out to other people along the way. God always gives me the strength and wisdom I need, and most often it’s through friendships with others.

Link it to Your Life

What challenges did you have in your childhood that other people didn’t view as a problem? How did you navigate through it? Do memories still affect you today?

Dear Father, thank you that you helped me survive many difficult events in my young life. You were with me through many years of upheaval and insecurity. When I am anxious, help me to look to you for my security.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you..” (Deuteronomy 31:6 NIV)