Communion

I’ve been to communion countless times. I’ve taken it in all kinds of circumstances. In the redwoods, on the beach, in a cathedral, in a classroom, in a hospital. I’ve had little hosts that stick to the roof of my mouth and elaborate cinnamon twists curled into communion. I’ve drunk grape juice and fine wine. I’ve come to the table in jeans and in my wedding gown. I’ve taken the whole event seriously and I’ve just gone through the motions. (I’m not proud of that last part.) Communion is the center of my faith and yet I breeze passed it many times, waiting for the sermon or the coffee time after the service. Good Grief! But when I stop myself and really listen the words the pastor is saying. I start to cry. How can I be so loved? Why did a KING die for me? I am struck dumb with joy and sit dabbing my eyes with a tissue. I can’t figure it out and I get a headache trying. Finally I sit and smile. “Thank you so very much for taking me in as your daughter.” My words fall so short, there is no metaphor for how I am botching my thank you. I love you and it almost hurts to be loved so much by you. Thank you.

Posted 9/7/2008 @ 10:03 AM | Weekly Thoughts