The bright morning sun streamed through the classroom windows at the boarding school for missionaries’ children in central Nigeria. Twenty of us second-graders stared intently at the teacher while she explained the arithmetic problem on the blackboard.

My tummy rumbled loudly.

The stout, gray-haired woman turned, holding her piece of white chalk in midair. “Whose stomach was that?”

The kids around me giggled and pointed my way.

“Debbie, didn’t you eat your breakfast?”

“Well, yes. But I didn’t eat much.”

“Why not?”

I lowered my eyes and ran my fingers along the edge of my desktop. “Because I hate the porridge every morning, and today the servers only gave me a little bit.”

She turned back to the board. “Don’t say ‘hate’.”

I laid my head on my desk. ‘Hate’ was a bad word, but that’s how I felt about the food. And no one seemed to care.

Soon, the lunch bell rang. I shuffled out the door toward the sunny, humid playground. As I stood for a moment in the cool shade of the big mango tree, suddenly, my heart lifted. The smell of onions and garlic coming from the kitchen reminded me of my mom’s tasty cooking at our home four hundred miles away in the village of Egbe. But just as quickly, my heart sunk when I remembered I didn’t like most of the food at Kent Academy.

In the large dining room, I wound my way to my section and peeked into the metal pots on the serving table. My shoulders slumped to my toes. Not again! Chewy beef, gluey mashed potatoes, and mushy peas. Yuk! I was starving but not that desperate.

The Trouble with Food

The junior high kids plopped big mounds of potatoes, gravy, meat, and peas onto my plate. Then a big boy brought the piled-high dish and set it in front of me.

I crossed my arms and stuck out my chin. “That’s waaaaay too much,” I said and pushed it away.

One of the junior high girls watched the scene. “I know Debbie from our Egbe station. She always eats like a bird.”

The boy looked up and said, “That’s why she’s so skinny.”

He shoved the plate toward me again. “Here. You have to eat everything we serve you. That’s the rule.”

With a sigh, I picked up my fork and took a bite. As I chewed the tough beef, it seemed to grow and grow until it filled my mouth. By the time I finally swallowed all of it, the peas were cold, and a thin film of fat covered the gravy.

When everyone in my section finished eating their lunch, fifteen pairs of eyes watched me struggle through my last bites.

The boy at my table squirmed in his chair. “C’mon, Debbie. Can’t you chew faster?”

After the last swallow, I used my spoon and scraped the fat off the roof of my mouth. My tummy lurched. I hope I don’t throw up.

“Why can’t I go home?” I said to the girl at my table. “I really hate the food here. And I miss my mom. She knows what I like to eat.”

She shrugged. “I’m sorry you don’t like it. Everything tastes really good to me.”

I sighed. “That’s the trouble with food. Some people like it all, but I don’t.”

Finally, the Dorm Uncle’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Section Three may be excused.”

Waiting on the Slow Poke

The following day at lunch again, I took so long to eat that my tablemates started fidgeting.

“Eat faster,” one said.

“Hurry up and take another bite as soon as you swallow,” said another.

Over the loudspeaker, the Uncle announced, “Section Three, you’re the last ones. I’m going to excuse all of you except Debbie Jones. She must stay until she’s finished eating.”

After the other kids left, a Dorm Auntie walked over and sat beside me. “Why aren’t you finished yet?”

“I hate this Old Faithful dessert. Every single day we have soggy fruit at lunch.”

“Don’t complain, Debbie. Be thankful you have food.”

I stirred the syrupy bananas around with the slushy guava pieces.

She impatiently took the spoon out of my hand. Filling it with fruit, she lifted it to my eye level. “Here. Open your mouth.”

I shook my head. “I can’t eat another bite.”

The determined woman pressed the spoon against my lips.

Grimacing, I opened my mouth, and she tipped everything in. I swallowed the whole chunks and gagged.

This tastes like garbage. I knew better than to say that out loud.

 Another bite. Another swallow. Another gag.

I swallowed hard to keep it down.

After the last spoonful, she said, “Good girl! You finished it all. Now you can go to your dorm room for rest hour.”

I grabbed my tummy and bolted for the door. Just outside the dining hall, I stopped at the planter box and leaned over the lush tropical ferns. Up came the contents of my stomach.

A Reprieve at Last

Once I was finally in my room in the girls’ dorm, I lay on my bed, waiting for my stomach to settle down, thankful for the daily rest hour. Even though I had a few treats from home in my tin in the girls’ cookie cupboard at the end of the hall, I didn’t want to waste one on an upset tummy.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the brownies, Fulani cookies, and roasted peanuts Mom baked regularly and mailed to my older brother Larry and me. Tomorrow I would eat another homemade cookie from my rations. I hoped my tummy would settle before my afternoon classes.

Looking Back on my Childhood

I’m sad to say that many days I was so stressed, lonesome, and homesick I couldn’t even eat. In my early childhood, I had an aversion to most foods. So many things tasted rotten to me, earning me the label of Picky Eater. Since the school provided no alternate options, I was forced to eat everything I was served.

At breakfast, I always asked for just a spoonful of porridge, and often that was all I ate—a single spoonful. Other times I was served a large portion which I pushed around my bowl and eventually swallowed with gulps of milk.

We all had different personalities, sensitivities, likes, and dislikes. At the time, I didn’t know why everything tasted bad to me—maybe it was a combination of stress, homesickness, allergies, and childhood taste preferences.

I wish I’d had more choice as to what I put into my mouth. We all should have had the right to say, “this is too much.” As an adult, I felt validated when I discovered I was allergic to gluten and dairy, things no one understood back in the day.

The staff tried to keep me healthy. But due to the lack of knowledge surrounding allergies, the accepted method was to force me to eat at least a minimum amount of nutrients.

What I Know Now

At the end of fourth grade, my family flew to the U.S. for a furlough. We stayed in New York City for three days where our mission doctor examined us. He diagnosed me as malnourished. At nine years, I weighed just forty-four pounds—barely double my weight as a two-year-old.

After a year in California, where I lived with my family and came home every afternoon after school, I managed to put on nine pounds. Maybe because I had the choice to eat foods I could properly digest, or maybe because I was more relaxed while eating in the comfort of my family, I grew to tolerate more foods by the time we returned to Nigeria. However, I remained thin all through childhood because there was never enough food that sat well with me.

Since being diagnosed with intolerances to gluten and dairy, I know what items to avoid. With so many gluten-free and dairy-free options readily available, I now have the opposite problem. It’s too easy to put on the pounds!

Link it to Your Life

What was your eating experience like as a child? As an adult? Have you struggled with negative labels surrounding digestive issues or weight gain/weight loss? How has this affected your self-image? What steps have you been able to take toward healing emotionally and physically?

Father, thank you for sustaining me through those difficult days. I’m grateful you’ve given me the joy of eating good food with loved ones over the years. I look forward to the day I will feast with you in a perfect world with perfect digestion  Amen.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
(Psalm 73:26 NIV)