Sunday marked the second time in as many weeks that we attended church, and they served communion. It’s been a really long time since I’ve taken part.
I found myself
hiding in the nursery for most of the service, but an usher took note and provided me with the elements as he came to the back. Abby saw me take a bread crumb and asked if she could have some too.
I stopped and told her that it was a very important symbol, it’s the body of Jesus and it was broken for us. She looked at me with a soft “oh” on her lips. She said please and asked again if she could have some.
So I broke my piece and held out my hand to her. I asked her to pray, asked her to say “thank you” to Jesus.
“Thank you for saving us, Jesus,” she whispered.
She went to the window with her crumb and watched as the pastor led the church. She put it in her mouth and ate it with everyone else.
When the cup came, she came to me again. I told her it was the blood that was spilt for us. I asked her to pray, to tell Jesus how much she loves Him.
“Jesus, I love you.”
I drank first from the tiny cup. She finished it.
In the back of my head, I remember a professor at university who used to let his three-year-old participate in communion. He described how some members of the church were a bit indignant about it, but his position was that as long as his son understood the concept, he should be allowed to participate.
“Jesus is our friend. Jesus saves me.”
Abby is almost four, almost grown-up, and yet still breathes innocence. The things she says to me sometimes, about God, about Jesus – I can’t help but feel she really does know more than I do. When she says she wants to go to Jesus’ church, I can’t help but not my head and share in her enthusiasm.
There was something profound about sharing it with her that day, about taking what I was given, making it smaller, and yet it became more, so much more.