The conspicuously loud crunch of the cracker snapped me back to attention. I’d been absorbed in the lyrics I was singing, although I hardly had to think about them – that’s how familiar these songs have become. With the lights dimmed, I felt my husband James’ hand press lightly against the small of my back as we walked down the aisle toward the station where communion was set up.
“Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow. No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.”
I sang these words quietly as we moved forward in the line, this weekly ritual so familiar that it was almost rote. In the darkness, I reached for a piece of broken cracker and dipped it in the little metal bowl filled with grape juice. As I lifted the cracker to my lips, I saw it was a bit larger than I expected and not quite saturated with juice, so instead of being soft and nearly dissolving on my tongue, the cracker snapped and crunched under my teeth. Continue reading