Streaked with Grace

hands that sow
Photo by Molly Stoddard on Flickr’s creative commons.

I don’t mean to dip my fingertips into the wine along with the bread, but in that dimly lit basement, it sometimes happens. And I’m always glad when it does.

Within seconds I’ve chewed and swallowed, but my fingers are still streaked with light purple. It feels like a measure of grace, like my skin has mingled with something holy, like that holiness is moving down my hands and up my arms and into all of me.

We are speaking and listening together, standing and sitting together, breathing in and breathing out, and I look at the hands that held the bread and still carry signs of their participation in the Presence.

A week ago, I was distracted and looking around the room, I was feeling alone and desperate to change that, I was tired. And then six words planted themselves in me: I will take care of you.

This is why I keep going back.

The rest of the week may drift into monotony and shadow, relationship moving into elusiveness once again, but in these moments I can almost see.

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