I sat in the second row of the green chairs, the ones stained from occasional sippy cup spills and crumbs from toddlers’ snacks so parents could hopefully catch a word or two from Mass.
A curly haired one year old was before me. She had the most beautiful olive skin while her adoring mom and dad had fair skin. I ached to have a family, more than just my husband and I, how I wanted what that beautiful family had that sat before me. I was broken.
Her daddy picked her up and as he received communion with her in his arms, she stared up at him, soaking in the moment with eyes full of wonder. Big brown eyes, her daddy’s strong arms, and the Eucharist.
Suddenly it was clear to me. The picture of God’s love.
At that moment, I realized the gift in the Eucharist. God’s body, broken. Broken for me. Broken for each one in our church, each with their own set of hurts and pain. I watched this beautiful family that would one day become our closest friends and knew that God was in my worry and anxiety - my brokenness was his in the Eucharist.
Our home parish is the place that my husband and I would worship every week for twenty four years this July. It is the home where I eventually and joyfully learned how to juggle a diaper bag, toys, bottles, and a baby on my lap. It is the home where others reached out to me as a young mom and taught me that my ordinary life was a spiritual life. This home was a place I felt encouraged, prayed for, uplifted, and heard.
I wonder now how, after all of these years, I could have taken it all for granted.
Upon reflection, I did, I think. I didn’t realize how wonderful it was to bask in God’s weekly glory until it was suddenly taken away from me.
When Covid-19 closed our church and our normal lives, I did what I do best. I worked to make it work. If we weren’t going to have our place to worship, I would make home the sacred place. For months my family and I watched Mass online.
I served high tea after Mass each Sunday. Over the months I perfected my scone recipe and homemade lemon curd. I can do this, I thought. I didn’t know that without our home parish, without the Eucharist, I was trying to fix my brokenness - all on my own.
Christmas Eve, 2020 came around and I felt empty. My family and I sat in our comfy clothes trying to convince ourselves that this would be the most fun - not dressing up, not fighting for a seat in church, relaxing at home. But when my emptiness turned into panic and my husband, Scott, could clearly see it in my tear filled eyes, he said, “Just get in the car, we’re going to our church. Even if we just sit in the parking lot.”
And we did. We drove there, not having been there since early March. We thought, maybe we could just go inside for a few minutes, stay in the back, hear a few words and then leave. But concern for ourselves and our daughters in a time when there were no vaccines would not allow for comfort to worship and hear the Good News.
So we left after ten minutes. How I longed to stay inside. But here I was, in the car in a dark parking lot with my daughters sitting behind me and my husband holding my hand.
I realized that I couldn't sustain my faith alone. I couldn’t pretend that putting together a little tea party for my family of four after online Mass, as beautiful a memory for my family as it was, would help my brokenness.
So we sat in the parking lot and cried.
I wept, aching to be in our Church and to receive the Eucharist that would be the balm to my broken soul.
6 months later…
On the morning of Father’s Day, it was a clear summer day. It was also the first day that all four members of my family were fully vaccinated. As we approached the Church, I concentrated as we walked across the parking lot - the sound of the bells, that tall brown stone building, even the song sheet in my hands - how I’d waited for this moment.
The familiar doors that felt like a hug to me, the vivid stained glass, the smoothness of the pew was just as I remembered it. But this time I felt profoundly grateful. And that was enough for me.
I had forgotten about my brokenness, long pushed away as I took care of my family during the Covid-19 year. As I watched my best friend battle cancer with a smile but never a complaint. As I learned to teach my students remotely and helped my daughters tackle online school.
But I walked up that familiar aisle as I had so many times before and I thought back to that one year old and her beautiful family, how I realized that the Eucharist, the Eucharist in THIS place I called home with all of our brokenness together, was Christ’s body broken for me.
The ultimate sacrifice - God showing me that he was IN my brokenness, in my heart. And once again, in receiving his love when I walked up to Communion, I was home.
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