When we first walked into this home, we loved these arched windows in the front room. The way the light slants through in the afternoon, with long shadows from branches just outside, made me feel like I was in an old country chapel. I had no idea how true that would be; in COVID-19 confinement, this area became sacred space.
On Sunday, we gather our family here.
Most often, children are barefoot, a little unkempt.
We step outside the front door, circle the driveway,
and climb back up the front steps to enter what is now Home Church.
I play imperfect hymns on this worn, well-loved piano,
and we sing words of worship.
My husband kneels and breaks bread — pita, tortilla, or baguette —
into as many pieces as there are people in the room to receive it.
“This is my body, which is given for you; this do in remembrance of me.”
The pieces are scattered to the body of Christ.
“I am the living bread which came down from heaven:
if any man eat of this bread, he shall live forever”
We partake, gathered again to Him as one.
His blood, meted out into assorted cups of many shapes and colors, shed for us.
Children squawk, more hymns of praise.
Both, offerings on the piano-bench-altar;
“The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me,
and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads.”
Religious rites complete, an infant needs to be nursed
and children are hungry again.
Perhaps He’ll linger at our table a little longer.