Communion

July 24, 2020

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she sat, slowly chewing. I should have known, but it just hadn’t occurred to me until two weeks before when she had almost inadvertently said, “I can’t remember the last time I had communion.” Mom has been housebound for years; like I said, I should have known. 

So just before dinner this afternoon, I placed before her one of her hand painted dessert plates on which sat a small dinner roll and a tiny cup filled with grape juice. The words are as simple as they are ageless: “The Body of Christ broken for you preserve your soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat; feed on him in your heart by faith, and be thankful.” We ate and drank together, mother and son, her eyes welling up as I prayed for us both. Almost as quickly as I began, it was over, except for the lingering Presence.

The Church calls it a mystery—something we believe and experience, but can’t explain. We also call it a “means of grace,” which is another way of saying God is doing something that makes a difference, that makes us better—more like Christ. In his letter to the Ephesian Christians, St. Paul repeatedly states that we are “in Christ,” and in Holy Communion, we state that Christ is in us. I cannot tell what my aged mother experienced today, but I know it moved her even as I was humbled and honored to be able to offer to her this gift of love. Her tears I saw; mine I felt.