Welcome to a new year and another Communion Sunday. We have open communion at my church in Capital District Land, which means anyone, whether they are a member or not, can partake in the distribution of the bread and wine (grape juice in our case).
Today, as we come to the feet of the Lord, in reverence and humbleness, my mom, upon the breaking of the wafer, promptly drops half of it on her scarf. She fumbles around in the dark, searching. I watch, biting my tongue and clamping my lips. If I start laughing, several people nearby are sure to be irked.
With a sweep of her hand, Mom dislodges the rebel piece of wafer. Our mouths drop when we see Jesus’ “body” fly off said scarf to land on the floor. Mom stifles a giggle and I whisper, “Mom, you dropped Jesus. Again.”
“I know!” She says, while sticking the fragment into her purse for safe-keeping (no one wants to step on Jesus). “Why does this keep happening to me?” Several months ago, Mom’s thimble-sized cup had a hole in it and when she drank from it, the juice spilled down her shirt.
So she dropped Jesus. Again.