Commune with Us
When the pandemic began. I was one week into a brand new job, one of my sons was in Lanett with me after deciding to take a semester break from college, the other son was 30 minutes away working at a bank and living in Auburn, and Bobby was way up in Pennsylvania working on an oil and gas project.
This was fairly normal for our family, but the lock down hit us just as hard as everyone else. We were new to Lanett, even though I grew up here. We had my mom and old friends, but we didn’t know many other people.
In that year when everything stopped, on a dime, in a second, everything shifted. Everything changed. School looked remarkably like homeschooling for everyone. Work, even when you were working on a team, was done solo. And, church, well, church made me feel more remote than anything.
The shut down in Alabama started about a week before my husband and I were going to join a new church. I was looking forward to getting to know people. Having lunch with ladies I wanted to discuss missions and service opportunities with, having people over for meals that started out slightly awkward then ended in sighs and thankfulness over true connection. I was looking forward to beginnings.
But, we were all sent home to work alone, learn alone and even worship alone.
 |
| Bread and fish after an Easter Sunday service standing by Niagra Falls |
The person leading the communion part of the service asked those at home to take a minute to “gather supplies.” Allen and I paused the video then scampered into the kitchen to lay our hands on the first things we could find. Anything that might work as a stand in for bread and wine, anything that might somehow help us turn our thoughts to the sacrifice of Christ.
I’ll admit this was kind of hard for me to begin with. I once had a friend describe communion at a camp her family attended. The children and adults at the camp shared in a communion meal of Coke and donuts. I kind of thought that was stretching the bounds of acceptable church behavior. Not sacrilegious, but getting there.
So, it was with a bit of unease that I grabbed the first things my eyes landed on, leftover Domino’s garlic knots from dinner the night before and Milo’s sweet tea from the refrigerator. I cut two small pieces of buttery, parsley-flecked bread and put them on a small plate. I poured a couple of ounces of sweet tea into two, small, SEC Hall of Fame, plastic cups. I carried them to the family room and sat them on the trunk we use for a coffee table.
As the service continued, we were asked to share the elements with each other.
“The body of Christ.
Thanks be to God.
The blood of Christ.
Thanks be to God.”
Allen and I took turns holding the plate, shyly and awkwardly saying the words. We each took our cup afterward and briefly held the tea aloft, almost toasting each other before taking a sip.
Then, it was quiet. We listened to the music being played on Spring Road Christian Church’s Facebook page and settled back into our places on the couch. I closed my eyes thanking the Lord for all He has done, for all He continues to do for me - in me and around me.
And, in that moment I felt peaceful, loved. Like God was present in the room, the smell of garlic hanging in the air like incense, the tumble of blankets on the couch needing to be folded. Like He didn’t care what we had eaten for communion, He just wanted to commune with us. To be invited, to be remembered.
And, He was, even with such humble elements made holy by His very presence.
 |
| A gift of wine brewed in a college fermenting class |
Before the pandemic most of my experiences with communion were very reverent and saintly. Like the time I met a young woman who had briefly lived in the home of a pastor. She said every Saturday he ground wheat kernels by hand and baked bread loaves for communion at his church the next day.
Or at my wedding where we had a freshly made, beautiful loaf of bread made by our pastor’s wife. We also had Sprite. Someone, me probably, had forgotten we needed grape juice for the communion part of our ceremony. I wondered why Brother Webb was looking at me so intently as I took the chalice. I didn’t stop to think about it in the moment, but I did briefly wonder why there were bubbles in the “juice.”
The lock down chipped away at some of my closely held ideals of what communion should look like. During the pandemic, in our communion celebrations, we shared cheese straws and water, pieces of sandwich bread and orange juice, crackers and Coke. It hasn’t been the same communion meal twice, but it was special and sweet and, dare I say it, holy, every time.
Because the thing about communion isn’t what you’re eating, grape juice and hard, tiny wafers or wine and bread, or Coke and donuts, it’s what you’re remembering. It’s what you’re choosing to partake in. And, that’s the Body and Blood of Christ.
Sitting in an easily accessible place on the shelf in my kitchen is a book called Bread and Wine. It’s a book with stories about food and meals and friends. It has the biscuit recipe I make many Sunday nights, a delicious vinaigrette salad dressing, and the decadent sounding Dark Chocolate Sea Salted Toffee. In this book, Shauna Niequist, the author, talks about how important bread and wine are not only as elements that fill our bodies, but as indelible marks on the life of a believer in Jesus. She says,
“Bread is bread, and wine is wine, but bread-and-wine is another thing entirely.
The two together are the sacred and the material at once,
the heaven and the earth, the divine and the daily.”
Shauna Niequist, Bread and Wine
I’m so thankful the lock down is behind us, that we gather each Sunday, together, to worship and pray, to hug each other and shake hands, to hear the Word of God and take communion. Beautiful loaves of white bread, dipped in a bowl of scarlet juice. But, Allen would like everyone to know he’d appreciate more opportunities to have church with his dog.
