The gaping hole in your chest meant to hold reverence and gratitude for this act of worship instead holds thorns and broken bone bits of pain, and you somehow feel it’s not right to partake in the Sacrament when all you have to offer in return is your own broken body, your own spilling blood.
So instead, the Body and the Blood, they come to you.
A sister’s strong hands wrap around your shoulders, hold you as you weep. She waits for the Spirit and begins to pray, prayers for protection against doubt and confusion, but did she know that those very enemies were keeping you glued to the seat? Prayers for a realization of your worth in Him, and had she heard just how darkly you had begun to question that in the last few days? Prayers for strength for a soul perched feebly on the edge of giving in to the difficulty of it all. Prayers for things so desperately, so specifically needed.
This is the great wonder of Jesus: that He finds the bruised reed clutching her half-smashed mustard seed, and He protects her.
Three strong men, godly men, join to pray for this and so many other needs, lifting each other up, agreeing with one another and the Spirit. One stays behind to pray Psalm 36 over me, prays to remind me of God’s steadfast love. Steadfast. I have somehow always expected His love to change with my circumstances, this set in particular. But it is steadfast and unfailing, and He has sent this sister and these brothers to help me remember, to let me know He is near. And I find myself able to rise up, to walk.
“Praise be to the Lord, for He has heard my cry for mercy.
The Lord is my strength and my shield;
my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped.
My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to Him in song.”