Grace In Motion

The Afterschool “Snack”

An old school chum reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten.

After school, she’d come to my house and knock, asking if I could come out and play. My dad would answer the door and say, “Not right now. We’re having our afterschool snack.”

Calling it a snack was a lie we all politely agreed to.

It was a full-on meal. Meat. Vegetables. Pasta. Plates, forks, the whole production. The kind of food most families saved for dinner.

My father fed my brother, sister, and me an extra meal every afternoon because he thought we were too thin. At the time, he was competing in bodybuilding. Protein was king. Bulk was the goal. He said he was trying to “bulk us up.”

That was love, in his dialect.

We weren’t just kids coming home from school, we were under construction. Bodies to be improved. Frames that needed filling out. Hunger wasn’t the question; adequacy was.

So while my friend waited outside, sneakers scraping the porch, daylight draining away, we sat at the table eating our first of two dinners. Play could wait. Muscles mattered more.

It felt normal back then. Mildly inconvenient. Just one of those house rules.

Only now do I hear the subtext:
Your body is up for review.
Thin is suspicious.
Left alone, you might not be enough.

My father lifted weights.
We lifted forks- obediently.

And here’s the truth I don’t want to flatten into blame: he loved us. He fed us. He showed up every day. He believed strength kept you safe, and he was trying to give us armor in the only way he knew how.

Still.

Love can feed you and still teach you to second-guess your body.
Love can mean well and still leave fingerprints.

Funny how a so-called snack can carry a whole philosophy about worth.