The Eucharist

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Vivienne’s budding faith — probably because of the steady stream of questions she’s throwing at us… Little things, casually peppered into breakfast conversation or a walk to the park.

Why can’t I see God?
When will God make me into a grown-up?
How will God take care of the people in Syria?
Why did God make different kinds of skin on people?

Talk about pressure! We’ve really moved beyond why is the sky blue?

But it seems like these questions are more loaded for me than for her. She’s not looking for black and white answers — gray is just fine for five-year-old rumination. The mystery only seems to enlarge her idea of God, as if welcoming her through another door in her own adventure with him.

No fear, no division, no demand for certainty.

We grown-ups have really lost the knack for this.

So, here you are… a bit of gray to start your day. (You might also consider it a brief poetic companion to this post.)

The Eucharist

Furrowed brow,
forceful whisper:
“Wouldn’t it be yucky to drink blood?”
We are looking up
to the altar, listening
to the prayer.

“Well, the wine isn’t really blood, it just
reminds us of Jesus’ blood.”

Just! As if the weekly wine were
a small matter. As if it did not
carry the heart of God over the rim
of the cup, across the great divide
of our lips.

“Oh! That kind of makes sense,
but not too much sense.”

Yet, she is satisfied.

– Caroline McDonnell