I grew up under oak trees in Raleigh, North Carolina. They were my steady companions through every season of my childhood: green in the summer, red, orange, brown and yellow in the fall, bare and beautiful in winter. I watched them grow as I did.
But inside our house, life moved fast. If dinner couldn’t be ready in twenty minutes, we’d just drive somewhere because it was easier.
Our family didn’t sit around a table; we grabbed our food and went our separate ways. I didn’t think much of it then. I assumed that’s just what families did.
Looking back, I can see it clearly now. We weren’t just eating fast food. We were living fast lives, missing the deeper nourishment that connection brings.
When food comes in paper bags and plastic cups, it’s easy to forget it actually comes from the earth, that it is part of creation. That truth started to come back to me in college.
I moved into an on-campus apartment with windows that faced a few trees. I would pass them by without much of a glance, yet something inside me began to ache, a longing I couldn’t name at first.
I think it was a hunger for stillness, for connection, for something real. So I began to make small changes.
I adopted a betta fish named Doodle. I learned to cook simple meals. The first time I made chicken alfredo, which a friend from college showed me how to do, I was stunned by how much joy it brought me.
It wasn’t just the taste. It was the act of making something with care with a close friend. The rhythm of mixing, the smell of chicken, the satisfaction of sitting down to something I’d created—it all felt holy.
Recently, I have been getting more home-cooked food from the hospital where I work. I see the cooks in front of me and connect to the healthcare culture. Because I took the time to learn about the different types of food and their costs, I was able to help a gentleman who had come for financial assistance through a food voucher.
Chaplains at my workplace offer meal vouchers. However, I was able to show him exactly where to go and what food to get with the money he was allowed. That moment was holy.
And that’s when I realized something painful: fast food had numbed my ability to see God’s goodness in the simple things.
Fast food doesn’t just fill us; it distracts us. It teaches us that speed is more important than substance, that convenience matters more than care.
It’s a kind of spiritual death, one that leaves no room for gratitude or wonder. Somewhere between the credit card swipe and the greasy bag of fries, we lose sight of the miracle that food really is.
It’s not just about health, either. It’s about presence.
When we eat food made by strangers in a rush, we don’t think about where it came from—the farmers who grew it, the animals who gave their lives, the earth that sustained it all. We just consume. And consumption without reflection eventually makes us hollow.
Our culture doesn’t make space for that kind of slowness. We live by calendars, not by seasons.
We praise efficiency and call exhaustion “normal.” Fast food fits right in—feeding the body while starving the soul.
But healing begins when we slow down enough to remember.
Sometimes I still fall back into old habits and grab something quick when I’m tired or busy. But I can’t go back to not noticing.
The fast food life once dulled my senses; now I crave the taste of things that are real. Food that took time and cost something, that carries a story, that reminds me of God’s goodness in the world.
The truth is, the real hunger many of us feel isn’t for calories, it’s for connection. We long to be known, to be nourished, to belong.
Fast food culture tells us to keep moving, to keep consuming, to ignore the ache. But the gospel invites us to stop, to rest, to delight again in what is good.
Fast food once filled my stomach but left my spirit empty. Now, I’m learning to eat differently: slower, with gratitude and wonder. I’m learning to see God’s goodness again, one meal at a time.
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