trust. community. peace.

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Lent seems a peculiar time to write about communion. It's akin to interrupting a hospital vigil to serve a robust red wine and fondue. But Lent and Communion warm with a curious light, and the weight of their respective beauty almost demands the weirdness of an interruption of the expected. They also share two meaningful, relevant stories: pain and community. 

Pain, like unsettled wine dredges, swirls constantly between, around, inside each of us. Ghosts of the past with too-real touches flare, recent wounds throb, even healing soft spots ache. Coursing just under our carefully arranged smile-masks, thrumming until it splashes out of an overfull cup. Somehow. Somewhere. Because it must.

While talking with a friend tonight, I was offered the honor of sipping from his bitter cup. He spoke of long-gone ghosts, sharing a journey of hard steps. He said he only recently started talking about where he started, about how he longed for a father who'd checked out and wished for a mom who'd been strong enough to be present.

He was the odd kid out, awkward and unknowing of how to accept his dredges, ungainly, unsure. Told not to talk about such things, not to make up stories, he was left to stew, brew, bitter. In the dark night of his soul, seductive voices whispered... self-harm.

The steps from there to here went mostly uphill. Demons from that time still pick at his healing scabs.

He now holds the hope for what he didn't have in an uncertain, open hand. The other reaches for community. He shared he thought of community as trust, that trust feeds his needs. We talked about how what we wish were different aches as bad as what we never had. The time was too short, but stretched like taffy. 

And in this bread, 
and in this wine, trust.
And in this place,
and in this world, community.
And on this journey,
and in every step, peace to you.