Grace at the Table: A Quiet Ritual in the Highlands of Borneo

Dr. Yansen TP and guests begin their meal only after a prayer is offered. Photo credit: the author.

BORNEOTRAVEL - Long Bawan: In Krayan, a remote highland region on Indonesia’s border with Malaysia, I witnessed something rare: a meal table that is more than just a place for eating, it is a space for quiet spiritual communion. 

There were no religious symbols, no sermons, no coercion. Just a simple moment of stillness, then a prayer, and then a shared meal—slow, orderly, grateful, and reverent. It felt like prayer, in this quiet mountain place, had taken on a body; it had become flesh.

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There are many kinds of prayer in Christian tradition: prayers of supplication, confession, hope, surrender. But perhaps the most human, certainly the most universal, is the prayer of thanksgiving.

It asks for nothing. It needs no ornate language. It simply recognizes life as a gift. Even a modest plate of rice and boiled greens can be received as grace.

That’s the kind of prayer I encountered nearly every day in Krayan.

In this highland frontier of North Kalimantan, where mist settles on rooftops at dawn, Yansen TP, a local leader, not known for piety or pretense, has a quiet habit he never skips: he prays before he eats.

He doesn’t do it to appear devout, nor as part of any political performance. It’s simply how he was raised: to give thanks before his hand reaches for food.

I listened to his words. Gentle, respectful; often barely audible, as if whispered to the sky. But the core remained the same:

"Thank You, Lord, for the food and drink You’ve given us. May it nourish not only our bodies but also our spirits. Bless those who prepared this meal. And remember those who are without today."

The prayer is short, but it lands like a small hammer tapping the door of the heart.

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There’s a kind of majestic simplicity to it. It doesn’t aim to convert anyone, doesn’t preach but it leaves you with a sense that life is less about ownership than it is about acceptance. That what we eat is not solely the product of our own labor, but also the result of many unseen hands:
A farmer sowing rice in the misty highlands.
A mother stirring a pot over firewood.
A herdsman guiding his buffalo through morning fog.

In that prayer, they are all present.

Back home in Jangkang, my own family also prays before meals. That practice arrived with the Capuchin missionaries around the 1940s. I remember the long banquet tables at church gatherings, harvest feasts, baptisms, or community celebrations, where grace was part of the ritual. Sometimes the prayer was solemn and Catholic. Sometimes it was lively and full of laughter.

But it wasn’t a daily ritual. Not like in Krayan.

There, prayer before meals isn’t a formal rite, it’s as natural as breath. Like wild grass, it doesn’t need ceremony to grow; it simply exists.

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What struck me most was how these meal prayers transcended religious lines. When a Catholic led the prayer, Muslims would quietly follow along, murmuring their own zikr in silence. When a Protestant offered grace, those with different beliefs or ancestral faiths would bow their heads in their own ways. There was no resistance. No tension.

Perhaps that’s because a genuine prayer of gratitude, when spoken from the heart, doesn’t belong to any one faith. It is not bound by doctrine—it speaks in the universal language of humility.

I watched how, in Krayan, the dining table became a sacred space. No ornate symbols, no pulpit. Just a few people gathered around hot rice, salted fish, and boiled cassava leaves. A moment of silence. A prayer. And then a shared meal quiet, grateful, unrushed.

In that moment, prayer became more than words. It became real.

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In cities, we eat in a rush: fast food, dashboard dinners, bites between Zoom meetings. Even at lavish banquets, food is often reduced to decoration. We forget that every meal carries history, labor, and the fingerprints of many lives.

The meal prayer I encountered in Krayan brought all that back into focus.

And to me, that’s what makes it a sacred act, not a prayer lifted from an altar, but one whispered beside a pot of rice. Not one performed on a stage, but one quietly spoken before the first bite.

Maybe that’s why it moved me so deeply.

Because in Krayan, prayer is not a show. It is a habit. A way of honoring life; even when no one is watching.

I wonder what the world would look like if there were more places like Krayan.

Places where people of different faiths don’t judge, but join.
Where prayer isn’t a badge of identity, but a whisper of thanks.
Where food isn’t just nutrition, but a symbol of life shared.

Perhaps if we began with something as small as this, a quiet prayer before a meal, and a remembrance for those without, we might start to see the world differently.

Because prayer, in the end, isn’t only about reaching for the Divine.
It’s also about how we relate to each other.
To the one who cooked.
To the one who lacks.
To the one who believes differently.

And in Krayan, the meal prayer has become that bridge.

Humble. Steady. Unassuming. But profoundly human.

Like dew on a highland morning, silent, but enough to refresh the earth. *)