AC:
If there's one thing we all know in this family, it's that we share a deep, generation-to-generation resemblance when it comes to being hangry. My grandmother, your great-grandmother, was only 4 foot 9, but when she was hungry? Oh my goodness. She turned into a 10 foot-tall monster of angry. I would watch her usually sweet disposition turn slowly sour as she neared noon without lunch. It was invariable. We'd be out shopping, usually at Garden Ridge, her favorite, and she'd start stamping her toes at idle shopping carts, tsk-tsking at babies who (probably as hangry as she) began to squirm in their carts, and it usually culminated in our checker doing a less-than-adequate and certainly less-than-timely job of ringing up her items.
Anna Claire, you and I have inherited this not-so-appealing trait. Neither of us get hungry - we don't feel hunger in our stomachs. Our blood sugar gets low and our frustration slowly mounts. The worst part? Neither of us can really identify the cause of our enmity in the moment. Sam and Dad, though, they see us coming. Your signs are pretty tell-tale: it usually involves something your brother either did (and shouldn't have) or didn't do (and certainly should have) or could possibly do to upset the delicate balance of the situation (Shouldn't he know by now that you are going to want to play the Autobot? You are not a Decepticon and you never will be!). And the tears begin to roll. It's not rational, of course, but in the moment? In the moment, you can't tell which way is up and begin drowning in your loathing. Sam, though? He merely gets up, backs away from the scene, points in your direction, and mouths: "Feed her."
And I casually mention that I've got apples or chips and salsa in the kitchen. You brood in, shoulders hunched, and begin to munch. Five minutes later, you've returned to us: our calm, pleasant little Anna. It's that easy. You were just hungry.
But if a person only met you in your state of hunger, that person would think you're a cranky, petulant little monster. That person would not want to be near you. When a person is hungry or tired, that person isn't herself. She's the most primitive version of herself. She operates out of a great need. And even if she's trying to be diplomatic or kind, that hunger drives everything.
Sometimes, it's actual hunger. If a person is hangry, feed her before you judge or criticize her. Make sure she's well-rested and safe. Then you might just get to meet the person in front of you.
But sometimes hunger is something else. It's something you can't see or name.It can't be cured with a sandwich. Sometimes, a person is in a place, a state of life, where the hunger runs deep - so deep, in fact, she can't even name it herself. I know. I've been there. And every person who met me in this time in my life, this dark time, this time where I was searching, grappling with who I was, they never really met me - the real me. They met a version of me that was perpetually dissatisfied, generally unhappy, and searching for the source of my rage.
We'd just made a huge move to another state, I'd resigned from my position as a teacher-leader at a campus, and in one weekend, I'd left my job, my first house, all my friends and extended family, and was a stay-at-home mom in a truly foreign place. To say I was lost was an understatement. And I had no idea how much this move would change me - how much of my identity was found in my home, my job, the people I felt I'd lost.
I tried. I embraced the city, I joined mom's groups, I met some truly beautiful people. But I was devastated. More than feeling alone, I began to feel a slow, gnawing ache in my belly I'd never before experienced. I could only identify the anger, though, because anger is the easiest of all emotions to see. It was always there, under the surface. I became sarcastic and critical. I'd start projects and never finish them. I took two jobs that I quit within months. It took about a year before I realized and was able to name my state: I was hangry. I'd spent the last 8 years of my life having an identifiable role, having responsibilities, having a place, having control. And I'd forfeited it without recognizing my deep need to be industrious and respected. I'd had a job since I was 15, and suddenly, I couldn't name what I did, who I was, what my days were worth. And I had alienated so many people. I began, slowly, advocating for a great change in myself. I reached out to people I respected. I asked a lot of questions, did a lot of crying, and finally was able to face the deep hunger: I needed to let go of who I thought I was. I needed to accept myself without exceptions and become comfortable with an identity that wasn't tied to what I could accomplish or who thought I was important. And I realized that all along, there were people who were feeding me joy and patience and a great deal of grace. And when I began accepting these mercies, I slowly began to feel full again. It was only then I could give.
Hanger is real. It fills the house with rage. I can't imagine sitting at a table to feast while on-lookers, bleary-eyed and starving, desperately pined for a seat at the table. Darlin' if that was happening, we'd give up our seats, immediately, wouldn't we? And yet, that's what occurs all around us, every day. There are people who long to sit at a table of acceptance, equality, to feel a measure of safety and to fill their bellies until satisfied because they are human begins who deserve to be seen and known and loved. There is room at the table for all of us.
We meet people every day who are hungry. Perpetually. Their hunger could be situational or it could be generational: an ache to feel full, to feel safe, to feel home. Our job is to feed. Our job is to sit at a table and pass the plate. Our job is to dole out heaping portions of grace and generosity. And none of us are fed until we all get enough.
