Sacred Pieces

Spring 2013

When I was little, my dad used to make leftover omelets. They were generally gross and at best adventurous - a hodge podge of stuff you wouldn’t expect to see together in one meal. If a food made it into the omelet, that was a last resort - it had no other options and this was the last stop before Mom tossed it. I'm pretty sure my dad is void of tastebuds, so his ability to create and eat (and actually enjoy) them came in handy when it was time to clean out the fridge before a grocery run.

Regular (non-omelet) leftovers are the best. You already know what you're getting and there's something sentimental and familiar about coming back to that same meal again. You heat it up and remember having it for the first time. There's no prep work involved - you just dive right in and the hunger disappears much more quickly than it would if you needed to make something from scratch. I'm a pretty mediocre cook and get crabby when my blood sugar is low, so day-old leftovers are dear to me.

So is Recovery Worship. I show up on Wednesday nights more ravenous than I first realize. I'm hungry for that time together, circled around the word and the bread. I'm eager to sing and sit and reflect. Everything about this time together comes pre-broken: the people, the stories, the forgiveness, the meal, and the laughter. We dive right in and gobble up the leftovers. We don't need a recipe for being vulnerable and we don't need to follow instructions about sharing grief and multiplying joys - it just happens. We show up pre-broken and ready to go.

Sometimes we have a small group - just eight people sprinkled across twenty hopeful chairs arranged in a circle. But sometimes most of them fill. And we sing a little louder. And it's nice to have so many different people there for different reasons. Because at recovery, we're all the same. We're all coming ready to proclaim God's healing to each other. Brokenness doesn't need to be translated through parables or clever sermon illustrations. We're so clearly broken that it's beautiful. And for 45 minutes, that beautiful brokenness is lifted up and released and we mend a little. I am so alive and forgiven and at peace on Wednesdays at 7:35pm.

We share communion during this service. It's homemade bread and grape juice. S props the bread on her left wrist, which cannot lift or grip, but provides good balance. I watch her distinctive presentation as she declares to each person, The body of Christ, broken for you. She is followed closely by M, who is on a 20 second dementia loop. That means I can remind her what to say right before she starts serving and she’s changed her tenses and added an accent in time for most people to receive the cup to the tune of, The blood of Christ shits for you. 

J calls it dessert, probably because he's wandered in late after having seconds at dinner just in time to hear the words of institution and smell the grape juice. Maybe he can smell it because he's visually blind and his other senses are heightened. Or maybe he's messing with me. This meal gives us permission to show up broken, to bring our delicious day-old dinners and our bottom-of-the-heap omelets, too. Whatever we’ve got is welcome.

And so most weeks we have 8.5 in worship attendance. Or 14.5. Because sooner or later, J is there and he counts, too. And to be fair, I'm only teasing him when I say that I write .5 in the record book that is kept for fun facts and grant applications.

I always round up because he is and we are all, in fact, Whole.