On Worldwide Communion Sunday, we gathered in the church basement around tables.  I told the story of Jesus and his disciples and their last night together. “This is my body broken for you.”  It was a sweet bread. Dipped in grape juice, it was a taste I had never noticed before.  There was Jesus again pushing me from the familiar to seeing with new eyes and tasting with new insights.

We ate breakfast–breakfast casseroles, coffee, and orange juice. We talked together.  We sat close to one another.

The story of the loaves and fishes was read. There is enough.  All will be fed.  People were invited to take loaves of bread to friends and neighbors.

Prayer concerns were shared.  Some personal.  Some global. Some joyful.  Some heart wrenching. “Let us pray…”   There was prayer and silence.

The children sang and I said a blessing.

A few people stayed to wash dishes.  Others took names home and sent cards and letters to people far away.  One group went to work at the Head Start Playground.

I led a three car caravan to sing to two home bound women. We held hands in a circle, a ninety year age span between the youngest child and eldest member.

I didn’t preach a sermon.  There was no organ. No candles were lit.  The hymnals remained in the pews. It was a service of prayer and food and conversation and service and love.  A blessed and holy morning.