Yesterday at church, it was communion.
And I love communion. I’m not sure why. I’ve never been a formal kind of girl. Or into ritual. But communion has always had a way of fixing what is broken inside me.
I could write pages on the bread and the wine. And what it signifies. Or what happens. Or how I feel about feeding people. Or community. Or kneeling at the altar. On thankfulness. And rememberance. And I do think they are all somehow related.
But. I really don’t know what happens. I don’t care if it is a symbol or a mystery. I just like to be forced to the altar. To find myself on my knees. To have someone, especially when it is someone who knows my name, hand me the bread and the wine. And remind me. Of what Jesus did that last night with his friends.
And my church celebrates communion every month (or more depending on the service you go to). And it is an open table, and so if my kids have made it all the way through the service I take them with me. I know they don’t know what it means. But I still bring them.
And so this week, my son stopped coloring on the offering envelopes long enough to listen to what the person at the front breaking bread was saying.
About what communion signifies and means. And as the preacher ripped the round loaf in half,
Owen, says "They just bought that at the store. It didn’t come from God."
And repeated it. in case we didn’t hear. Or in case the people in the pew behind us didn’t hear.
And I laughed. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
And Shaun took this one on and I think tried to explain something about it being a symbol which was far too much for his little 5 year old head.
But he came to the altar with us anyways. Probably for a snack or the relief of not sitting still for a few minutes. Or maybe just to ask what store they bought it from. He stuck out his little hand and gladly took the bread from the store and the grape juice in the little cup from his friend’s dad. And he ate and drank and headed back to our pew to squirm and color on things that he shouldn’t.
And he is right. I’m sure they bought it at the store. Or someone did. Or maybe some sweet lady baked it. But I’m pretty sure it is just King’s Hawiaan bread. And grape juice they buy in bulk.
But that night a long time ago, in the upper room. It was also just bread and wine in a cup. And twelve friends around a table. Where it came from didn’t matter.
But what does is that He was willing to be broken and spilled out for them. And for me.
And so once a month, I tear off my piece of grocery store bread and drink my plastic thimbleful of grapejuice and remember how ordinary things can become so holy.