Sunday stew is more than just lunch in African households — it’s a ritual. A rhythm. A quiet ceremony where onions sizzle, tomatoes boil down, and the whole house starts to smell like safety.
But for me, it was also a trigger. The smell took me back to a house I no longer lived in, to people I had to emotionally leave behind, and to a little girl who used to stand by the stove, hoping someone would notice how quiet she had become.
This is about how one pot of stew broke me, healed me, and reminded me that God has been with me the whole time.
1. Stew Was a Symbol of Togetherness — Even When I Felt Alone
Growing up, Sunday stew was sacred. Whether it was beef, chicken, or lentils in a rush — that pot meant “we’re home today.” It meant rice. It meant quiet. It meant some version of normal.
But as I got older, the stew kept coming — even when the family unit didn’t. People stopped speaking. Tension thickened like gravy. And still, the stew bubbled.
It was strange — the food never stopped, even when the love did.
2. The Scent Triggered Memories I Wasn’t Ready For
Years later, I found myself alone in my own kitchen, trying to cook “something simple” on a Sunday. I fried onions, added garlic, poured in tinned tomatoes — and that smell hit me like a memory I’d buried under years of pretending.
I wasn’t ready for it.
I wasn’t ready to remember the dress I wore the day my mom died.
I wasn’t ready to remember my aunt’s silence when I cried myself to sleep.
I wasn’t ready to remember how invisible I felt while the stew still boiled.
But God knew I was ready to heal.
And that day, He used stew.
3. God Met Me at the Stove
Right there in my kitchen, while the lid clattered and the steam rose — I felt Him.
No sermon. No worship playlist. Just that still, soft voice saying:
“I saw it all. And I never left.”
Psalm 34:18 – “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
I didn’t even sit down. I stood in my little kitchen, crying and stirring. That stew became communion. That moment became deliverance.
4. Sometimes, the Past Has to Rise Before It Can Settle
The smell of Sunday stew brought everything to the surface — not to torment me, but to give it back to God. The kitchen became my therapy session. My memory lane became a prayer walk.
God showed me:
- The kitchen wasn’t just where pain happened — it’s where healing could too.
- I wasn’t just triggered — I was being transformed.
- Food wasn’t just fuel — it was a spiritual invitation.
5. Stew Now Means Something Different
Now, when I make stew on Sundays, I’m not performing a tradition. I’m honouring my journey.
I stir with purpose.
I taste with intention.
I eat with thanksgiving — for what I survived, for who I’ve become, and for the God who met me in the middle of it all.
Deuteronomy 8:10 – “When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the Lord your God for the good land He has given you.”
Even if that “land” is just a one-bedroom flat and a quiet afternoon, it’s mine. It’s peace. And that’s worth celebrating.
Try This: Healing With Your Own Sunday Stew
You don’t need to cook a perfect recipe. Just start with what feels familiar.
- Pick a meal that meant something to you growing up
- Cook it slowly, without distractions
- Let the memories rise
- Let God into those memories
- Don’t force the healing — just feel it, then feed yourself with grace
Write down what comes up. Cry if you need to. Laugh if it surprises you. You’re allowed to feel everything.
Final Thoughts
Sunday stew reminded me that healing doesn’t always come in big altar moments. Sometimes it comes in soft ways — in smells, in memories, in standing barefoot in your own kitchen, cooking through the pain.
If you’ve been carrying heavy emotions in silence, maybe it’s time to let God meet you in the everyday. In the ordinary. In the stew.
He’s not just the God of miracles. He’s the God of memories — and He can redeem them too.
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