Communion is like . . . Sundays at Grandmas

As an exercise thinking about communion, we were invited to think about the best dinner party we’ve ever attended and how that experience might be like God’s presence in our lives.

I love to cook and used to entertain a lot – not so much anymore – but of all the fine meals shared with good friends over the years, my own favorite meal experience has to be Sundays at Grandma’s house on a summer day when I was a little girl.

The food was a buffet of everything on hand, so along with ham, there might be pork chops. . . mashed potatoes and home-made noodles in chicken broth might be side by side . . . there was always enough and more besides.

The kids went first, getting through the line so the adults could actually sit down to the table.  Grace was always said first, but I have to admit that I viewed that more as the starting bell for the race than as a spiritual encounter with my Lord.  As soon as the Amen was sounded – only after what always seemed like an interminably long prayer – like horses out of the gate, we kids grabbed our plates and made our way jostling around the table – even though our heads knew there was plenty for all, somehow our bellies never believed it.

Cousin Mike & me begging my Dad for something -
probably ice cream

After we wolfed down our food sitting outside on the porch, we’d start pleading with the adults who had barely had time to get food on their plates to make homemade ice cream.  (Read about my adventures in ice cream at I Know Ice Cream ).

Being shooed away, we’d hurry back outside to play only to come back in and start the begging all over again, a cycle that repeated itself countless times until finally, it was time to make the ice cream.

Already stuffed from dinner, we’d challenge each other to see who could eat the most.  And this after the watermelon had been brought out and joyfully eaten (I prefer mine with salt - this was always the subject of much discussion among the cousins) and seeds spit the farthest and rinds tossed into the hay field – mine never went very far, but the arc they made was always satisfying, as if we had mastered some great mystery of engineering by tossing our dross aside.

After the adults had had a little time to rest and catch up, the younger ones would trudge onto the latest field of battle . . . badminton was a perpetual favorite.  Imaginary lines were drawn in the grass establishing boundaries; rackets were tested and when found wanting, traded to the unsuspecting younger ones (in my family, contests take no prisoners); and somehow, the decision as to who played first and who waited their turn was sorted out.

Chastity, Ben, Chad and Darin
gathering for supper

I don’t remember exactly when I was old enough to take a seat at the grown-up table or when I became one of those first on the field of play rather than last – but I do remember looking back at my younger cousins and feeling delight at leaving them behind.

As the sun started to lower in the evening sky, everyone would be gathered on the porch and sitting in the grass – adults talking about sickness and worries and teasing about when they were young and kids bopping up and down randomly as one then another would have another burst of energy.

Then one or two would announce, “I’m hungry,” and amble off to the kitchen for a supper of leftovers still waiting on the kitchen table.

Supper found us less organized, more mixed – adults and kids – as we determined our own level of hunger and sought help from the nearest relative as parents continued rocking on the porch in contentment that their own were off their hands for a moment or two.

I suspect I’m not alone in feeling different from other people – and that goes for my family as well.  But different as each of us are from the other, we are nevertheless known, connected, cared for, and at that table we gathered around, over and under, welcomed not as guest, but as one whose presence is taken for granted and whose absence would be noticed.

I don’t think I could describe my own connection with God any better: I am known by God and my presence at God’s table is taken for granted and my absence would be noticed.  And like the little kid I was at supper, whether it’s the one I expect or not, someone will always be there to help me navigate the table when I am too small to reach.