On Church (II)

Last week our quiet midwestern community was disrupted by terrible violence:  a kidnapping at gunpoint, the senseless murder of a courageous witness, and the suicide of the one at the center of it.

I cannot imagine the trauma of those directly involved in this.  As with many in the community, I know only what I've read in the newspaper and heard through the stories passed through the grapevine of what is, ultimately, a very small town posing as a city.

But last week, I did receive a message from the church secretary, that one of those directly affected by the violence has recently joined our congregation.  The call for casseroles and cookies was set before us all.

I made oatmeal chocolate chip.

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More than ten years ago now, some friends and I gathered to build lasagna (why does "build" always seem the right verb for lasagna?) for one undergoing treatment for cancer.  "Christians must believe casseroles can cure cancer," he later suggested in an e-mail that included some of us on its distribution list.  "We're running out of freezer space."

He's a survivor of more than twelve years now.

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My parents have told the story of some challenging years they lived when we were small.  For one or two years--I don't know how long--they would receive a twenty-dollar bill, wrapped in plain typing paper, in an otherwise blank envelope that had their typed name and address on it.

"Someone from church," they say; otherwise, they yet don't know.

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At a few months past two years old, my daughter runs through her going-to-church litany in the backseat while we drive the two miles.  "My boys are gonna be there.  KentandLuanne.  Pastor Lori.  Bruce.  Kyle.  Pastor Lori's gonna talk."  When we get to the front door, Ron and Marlene always greet her.  She gets to choose her crayon bag, stocked by some gracious soul who makes sure that the coloring books get updated.  And she's got the run of the place.  She has even taken to greeting the congregation following the service, making sure she's out of the row quickly enough for Pastor Lori to pick her up before she has shaken too many other hands.

At Orpha's funeral, when one of the choir members was holding her, introducing Jo to one of the visiting family members, I heard her say, "She belongs to the church."

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And week after week.  Month after month.  "Take and eat.  This is Christ's body."

In the impossibly tiny crackers at Leavenworth Nazarene.  In the bread homemade at Franklin Community Church.  In the loaves broken at Emmanuel Lutheran Church.  In the airy wafers at First Lutheran.  In the crumbly (and sometimes frozen) pieces at St. Paul.  In the honeyed discs at St. Mark's.

I taste bread of life in every one.

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Church feeds me.