Escaping into presence
with eucharist and playgrounds
I have a hard time being present when I am alone, yet I crave alone time, constantly.
When I have it, I fill it with something else. For so long I have let the practice of being present be initiated only by people or productivity. Over time, it’s become embarrassingly obvious how much I resist what is truly good for me. My impulse leads me to do anything but enjoy something good when I find it.
I am addicted to perpetual longing. Part of that is just the human condition, we will forever yearn for something, for more, always. But another part is one I am reflecting on a lot, confessing quietly in the morning that I am starving, but I also fear being satisfied. Where has that led me? Mostly it has produced a life of chasing presence, and then stopping abruptly to notice any other distraction I can find. Sometimes because I don’t feel worthy, sometimes because I’m scared about what danger awaits me on the other side of joy, sometimes because I’ve simply conditioned myself this way.
A couple Sundays ago, I went to the park with my family. The sun was setting, and I could see the famous purple reflection of the Austin skyline, her violet crown. We chased and played, the four of us. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes to listen to the sound of the tennis court, people cackling at each other, my youngest yelling for Brian by his first name, which she now calls him exclusively. At just shy of two years old, it affectionately comes out as “bow-en”, and every time we catch each other's eyes and *swoon*.
I found a bench and silently committed to soaking in the moment. Here I am. At a moment where my heart is willing (finally!) and my circumstances make it possible, and like a horse drawn to water, I silently refuse what I desperately need. I soaked in the moment for maybe 7.5 seconds before reaching for a distraction.
Out of habit, I unzipped my purse to grab my AirPods, my drug of choice these days. My AirPods weren't in there. But what I found made me exhale audibly.
Communion.
A tiny plastic cup with a film on top holding the communion wafer. Bread and wine. Body and blood. This sacred act is reserved for the walls of a church building. A ritual representing Christ’s gift of nourishment for our souls. Paid in full, and ours for the taking.
This invitation to reenact some of Jesus’ final moments with his friends.
This invitation to give thanks.
This invitation to accept the gift.
This invitation to nourish my soul...
At the park.
No walls, no one to witness. Just me, and my hungry soul.
Smirking like a fool into my purse, I slowly pulled the film back revealing the round wafer. As I lifted it up to study it, I felt a wave of undeserving, followed by a wave of gratitude. In my almost constant denial of my need for Jesus- my busy-ness, my self-sufficiency, my “right” answers… I keep getting invited. Over and over and over.
I want to be like Lucia, my oldest. She bursts through the big church doors from her kids class and promptly demands “WHERE’S MY BLOOD?” … and though it makes me cringe even at the memory, I admire her acceptance and assuredness that this is FOR HER.
And this, this unplanned, unearned moment between me and God. This is for me. I can taste the grape flavor on my lips as I whisper thanks to God for the moment of presence trickling down my throat, and the words ring in my head “this is my blood, which will be given up for you”. And I imagine for a second that instead of “drink from it all of you,” Jesus says, “amongst the slides and the swings and the snotty kids”.
Even though that week, that hour even, contained stress and struggle. That moment didn’t. It fueled me for the suffering that would come that night and the next morning. When the tears welled and I thought back to my heartbeat quickening when I opened that purse. And I remembered the promise that communion is and always will be, sustenance for suffering. It was for Jesus. It has been for so many. And it is for me. Just enough, just for today.
Interrupt me, God. Get my attention in ways that are particular to me. Help me accept your extravagant love. Sit me at your table and feed me and share your drink with me. Thank you for your constant, continued invitation. Thank you for moments of peace and stillness, let them be nourishing to my soul.
Amen.
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