wasting food isn’t as bad as wasting my life

I cried over a glass container of sauteed kale this morning. Maybe the kale isn’t entirely at fault; I’d been up multiple times in the night, convincing my two children that 1) three am is an unacceptable time to turn on the lights and play and 2) adjusting a shifted blanket does not require screaming for my assistance. My husband is gone; we had a Christmas event planned with my mom and grandma, and as I double checked our reservation time in my email, I discovered I’d missed an important note that, due to lack of payment, my reservation was removed. I’d already paid; I had the receipt and a charge on my credit card, but signup genius was determined to wipe me from its records. By the time I loaded my children into the car, uncertain we’d soon be nibbling on the Moravian sugar cake I promised if they’d obey during the event, I was strung tight and nervy. Then I saw the glass container of kale that I’d cooked yesterday. Two and a half bundles of dark beautiful lacinato leaves, sizzled in good, pure, untainted, Italian olive oil. Sprinkled with sea salt. And abandoned in the car for twenty-four hours instead of being shoved inside the fridge to eat with mashed beans throughout the week.

That’s when I felt the tears burning in the back of my eyes. Maybe the kale alone wouldn’t have sent me over the edge, and, all in all, it wasn’t that bad of a morning. But I was unprepared to handle the wave of mingled emotions that hit me as I picked up that packed-full, ready-for-the-week container.

I drove in silence to the event I didn’t know we’d be able to enter. My children, curiously, were quiet, so as we crept through the fog and mist, I contemplated: what exactly was it about the forgotten kale that drove me to the edge?

It was the waste, I decided. I’d spent money on organic vegetables. I’d spent time cooking it at my parents’ house, because my own kitchen is under construction. My week was already planned and I didn’t have time, I felt, to squeeze in another grocery store run and kitchen takeover. I wanted to go home and eat my kale.

I wondered: was this waste the worst kind? Is this all I’m wasting in my life—approximately five dollars, a few minutes in a cast iron skillet, and a grocery store visit—or is there something else I should be contemplating? I feel as though this waste is awful. But it isn’t really.

I waste time every single day. I don’t even use social media, but I still get sucked into my phone, scrolling through recipes or news articles or random useless links Google suggests I read. I slog through chores when I could complete them quickly and use the extra moments to rest. I try to read and my mind wanders, and five minutes later I realize I haven’t taken in anything I intended to; and while I’m currently working through The Righteous Mind and it isn’t the most gripping work of nonfiction, I can’t blame Jonathan Haidt for wasting my time. My own lack of focus is the culprit. 

I waste a lot. But the kale feels worse than the time, because I can see, very clearly, the consequences. Wasting time, on the other hand, might not result in immediate, obvious setbacks. With the former, I have to act right away: go back the store, purchase more kale, cook it again. With the latter, I can feel bad about my distractedness, promise myself I’ll try harder tomorrow, and ignore the icky feeling in my gut that I’m not fully present in the life and calling God has given me. 

I think a lot of how we ought to rejoice always, to give thanks in everything. Today, as I deliberated how in the world I could rejoice in my wasted kale, I realized that it’s a gracious gift from our Father to draw my attention from the things that don’t matter to the things that do. From the material to the immaterial; from my daily toiling to my ongoing sanctification.

And then I realized: our Lord doesn’t just stop at gently leading me to consider the hierarchy of my waste. Or the disordered nature of my wasting. He reminds me that he cares about all the little things of my life. He might use the spoiled kale to call to my attention the important time I throw away, but he still cares about me. He cares about the wasted kale, even as he uses it. He cares about me.

Let’s not satisfy ourselves with our convictions. Let’s keep going until we find ourselves at the feet of Jesus, grateful for everything, because he is, in the end, everything.