The body and the blood

I've always grown up taking communion once a quarter. Four times a year we would pass the silver plates through the pews, four times a year I would chew on a dry square of bread, four times a year my hands would shake as I pulled a plastic cup filled with juice from its slot--not because I was emotional, but because I was afraid I would spill it. I heard the familar words--"Do this in remembrance of me"--but my mind was usually on what was for lunch, or how much longer the service would last.

I don't blame my church for my poor attitude. I just never fully grasped the importance of what I was doing. It took me years to get to a place where I viewed the Lord's Supper with any kind of reverence. And my heart's still not where it should be.

But this Sunday, I had a moment of clarity. The church I attend now takes communion much more frequently, maybe even once a month, but it's a little different each time. Sometimes we stay in our seats and pass the sacraments. Other times we walk to the front. Once we walked to the back. I've knelt below a cross, stood in praise, sat in silence. This Sunday, as I walked back to my seat, a bit of cracker in one hand, a thimble-full of juice in the other, I felt broken. I prayed fitfully, but my words felt jumbled. So finally I silenced my tongue by placing the breaad in my mouth. And I felt like the Lord was just telling me "Be quiet. Take of my body." So I did. I chewed and quieted my mind. The bread was dry, scratching my throat, making me thirst. "Drink." The cool, sweet liquid filled my mouth as tears pooled in my eyes.

This Do In Remembrance of Me.