broken and spilled.

We leave our seats and silently join others on the stairs.  Quiet music plays, but it is only the backdrop for my swirling thoughts.  Slowly the line creeps towards the front of the auditorium.  Soon it is my turn.

My hands are cupped and outstretched, ready to receive.

My eyes meet his as he tears away a piece and places it in my cradling palms.

"Christ's Body: Broken for you"

Almost broken is my composure.  My breath catches at the thought.  My heart beats quickly to make up for that skipped beat.

Broken for me?

Before I have time to think, I am automatically moving on to the woman standing nearby.  Gingerly now I hold a piece of Christ's precious body as a wine glass is extended in front of me.

"Christ's Blood: Spilled for you"

I search her eyes as she says the words.  She means them.  In that moment she is a clear agent of Christ, her eyes saying so much more than those five words.  Instantly the bread is saturated with wine and I turn away.

As I turn to walk back up the stairs, I bring the moistened bread to my mouth, but not before a drop of the wine falls onto my dress.

His blood spilled.  Pour out.  Emptied.

Chills cascade down my spine.

My blood runs cold as I imagine His running down.

The whole thing is over so quickly.  How can it be that such an act, pregnant with meaning, takes less than a minute?  How can we move on with the service - with the day?! - when we just participated in such an overwhelming rite?

Days later I am still marveling, still in awe.

The body and blood of Christ.

Broken and spilled.

For me.


For me!