A few weeks into our marriage, Jason made a heartbreaking declaration over a bowl of spaghetti.
“I don’t think I like pasta.”
He might as well have said “I don’t think I want kids” or “I think God is calling me to be a missionary in Iran.” There are certain things one should discuss before saying “I do,” but I never thought to bring up noodles—my absolute favorite food. Is this what we meant in our marriage vows when we promised unconditional, sacrificial love? Continue reading →
This is the story of a Sunday meal come full circle.
It begins around the dining room table of my childhood. We are gathered there after a harried morning of getting ready for, attending, and coming home from church. My siblings and I are fighting over who gets the “chicken bones” on this week’s rotisserie bird. (My mom, wise as Solomon, later created a chart tracking whose turn it was for the coveted legs.) The poultry came swaddled in a plastic roasting bag and was always served with a side of Lipton Alfredo noodles. We ate in silence, for it was delicious. Continue reading →