A few weeks ago, I was in my car, driving to be with dear ones who were hurting hard.
It was a cloudy day, dark and dreary.
In a rare moment without little ones chattering in the back seat, my thoughts, my words drifted to prayer. Driving and praying, I half expected to see what my daughter calls a “soul rising”—a break in the clouds where the sun shines through. I was prepared to take it as a glimmer of hope, enough Light to stand with these dear ones as they took the next step.
Jesus did me one better.
Reaching the top of a hill, my breath caught in my throat. Not a break in the clouds, not a glimmer of hope, but a sky exploding in light. Not a cloud to be seen. Not just enough Light, more than enough.
After taking the cup, he gave thanks…
And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them. (Luke 10)
The Greek word means giving thanks.
But it’s not a formality, not a matter of manners.
It’s a sacred space, this Eucharisteo.
A remembering place.
Settled in my seat, ready to meet Jesus in the Eucharist, I’m reminded that it’s not a tidy place either, not a grown up, sanitary place.
The Little One behind me squeals with delight at the tiny cup of grape juice.
A bigger one without social inhibition asks questions that make his daddy cringe and try to shush him.
This too, is Eucharisteo.
All of us welcome here. Together. Sticky fingers, loud voices and all.
Again my breath catches in my throat (I seriously cannot take communion these days without bawling).
I see again a sky exploding in light.
A sacrifice, a Love, not just barely enough, but overwhelmingly, extravagantly too much.
And I cannot help but give thanks.