The Fourth Sunday in Lent: Sometimes, Thursdays are my Sundays

The Fourth Sunday in Lent

2 Chronicles 36:14-23; Ephesians 2:4-10; John 6:4-15; Psalm 122

“Gracious Father, whose ever blessed Son Jesus Christ came down from heaven
to be the true bread which fives life to the world;
Evermore give us this bread, that he may live in us,
and we in him, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever, Amen. “

Sometimes, Thursdays are my Sundays.

I see her every Thursday that she feels like it, unless I’m sick or out of town. We have the same routine every week. I am always ten minutes late. Her dog always barks at me, like I’m after the good silver and all his doggie treats. Sometimes, she shows me pictures of ridiculous shoes in the Neiman Marcus Catalogue, and we laugh wondering how anyone could ever walk in shoes like that, much less afford them. We talk about her kids. She asks about my family. I ask her about how she’s feeling, and she’s usually pretty honest, which means I don’t always hear happy answers. But this is what we do, week in and week out, whether we are at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.

Her living room is a holy place. The carpet, the pictures, the knick-knacks, the granny square throw on the arm of the couch, her chair, her mail table, the clock with shells that her daughter-in-law sent her from Florida, and the way she almost always has the card I sent her the week before poised on the coffee table that sits between us—this is our sanctuary. This is where we meet, pray, talk, laugh, cry, share, and feed each other. This is our pantry, where we go to get our bread and drink. And this is what we do, week in and week out, whether we are at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.
Communion is a holy moment for us. Me in one chair, her in the other, the little dog perched on an ottoman between us…” This is the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven.” I say that to her, and I put the Host in her hand, and I hold it there for a minute, mostly just to hold her hand in those moments. To remind her that even though she can’t come to the building, that this is church, that this is just as real, that she is just as important as anyone else, that she is a part of who I am as a person of faith, and who we are as a community of faith. She always meets my eye, and we have an understanding. We know.

I hate leaving her house. The dog goes after me again, always while I am giving her a hug goodbye. She knows I will call her next week, but I tell her that I will call her, anyway. She tells me, “Thank you,” even though I know she is, and she doesn’t have to say it. She locks the door behind me, and I can hear the bolt turn, as I make my way across the lawn, back to my little blue car, on to where-ever I’m off to next.

Sometimes, Thursdays are my Sundays.

--Rachel