Communion

I don’t take much with me when I come to communion, just everything. I move forward slowly, my hands outstretched, right palm over left palm facing up. I lower my eyes because of what I drag behind me. I drag with me every foolish plan, every deception and lie that I tell myself. I drag with me little hurts from the week, small sins, and my cowardice. I am embarrassed by my overwhelming need. I have overwhelming need.
“These burdens don’t belong to you, give them to me,” God says. Give to you? What do I give to you? I feel like I have nothing, but I put down my brokenness. I give it to you. It gave me identity, but I realize it is a false identity.
“Take, eat, this is my body given for you, do this for the remembrance of me. Take me instead,” God says. What else can I do? Has anyone ever said anything so passionate and truly meant it? How romantic and true! Do I want what God offers me? Will I receive God? I will take and eat. I will, with God’s help.
You don’t ask for much, just for me to show up and take what you want to give me. So I show up. I come to communion with all that I am and all that I am not. I put down those sorrows, schemes, and burdens. I take and eat in remembrance of you.