An invitation to feast at the table of suffering

There was the communion table.

It was really just a stained leather trunk holding memorabilia from my childhood – mixed cassette tapes of Bon Jovi and Brian Adams, public speaking trophies, some melted candles and old photos.

The day was white with snow. We draped our trunk with a lace cloth. It felt holy, somehow, like a marriage.

It was COVID and we were homebound and desperate for fellowship. So I pulled out a loaf of homemade bread and Trent filled a wine glass.

COVID made us hungry for church, for the warm breath of others, for the shoulder-to-shoulder lifting of hands, for the reaching toward God, together.

So this family became a church on the living room floor. A mess of knobby knees and smelly socks, a messy people. We formed a circle around the leather trunk, even as snow fell thick. A light flickered from the barn-board bookcase. A candle in the window flickered back, morse code.

Trent opened the Bible and read of the Last Supper. Our three kids sat criss-cross applesauce and tried not to play with the tablecloth.

Then Trent held up the slightly lopsided loaf and I thought, what a humble thing for Jesus to compare himself to. Something so unceremonious, so plain, always paired with something else. Yet it fell from heaven.

We bowed our heads to thank Jesus for this offering, and we passed it to each other, tearing off pieces. Flesh, for flesh. It tasted like mystery and flour.

Sacred gestures

Trent took the clay wine glass, mountains painted on its sides, and we thought of Jesus’ blood. What a generous and odd thing, this inviting people to drink your blood. His body, a buffet.

There was the sipping and slurping and sharing of one glass, feeling very rebel-like, defying pandemic rules. My kids sat with purple mustaches, giggling and shushing each other.

And in the midst of us being very un-sanctimonious, I heard a voice.

Do this in remembrance of me (Luke 22:19).

It’s this that crushed me.

All my life, this has been a sacred gesture. A religious symbol.

Now, however, this became more.

It became an invitation to feast with Christ at the table of suffering.

The voice was quiet and unassuming. It could easily have been ignored.

I chose to listen.

Will you do this in remembrance of me, Emily? Will you become broken bread and poured-out wine with no regard for your life?

Me Lord? The girl who spat in your face and punched holes into walls and ran from the church?Me? Broken bread?

There on the carpet, my kids and husband chatting, the candle and lightbulb flickering, Jesus looked at me.

Much like he might have looked at Simon Peter that morning on the beach, where they’d all but abandoned their Savior yet again.

“Emily, do you love Me?”

“Yes Lord, you know I love you.”

“Do you really love me, Emily?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Feed my sheep” (John 21:17).