On a cold, rainy Thursday afternoon, we set out out all the traditional trappings of Thanksgiving: creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole with crispy onions, sweet potatoes drenched in butter, gooey mac-and-cheese, and, of course, a huge turkey carved up fresh from the oven. A banner over the table of sides read, “Give Thanks” in gold script, tea lights flickered in mason jars on the table, and the silverware came with a pen and paper for us to make thankful lists.
On a gray afternoon in Albania, I sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with a family I never knew I had.
I looked around at the six girls I didn’t have a choice in living with. We had stayed up late or woken up early to cook our favorite recipes. We had washed dishes and taste-tested and grocery shopped. Now the room was full of joy that went deeper than just our heaping plates of real, home-made American food. It’s a feeling I’ve come to associate with communion, the feeling of the body of Christ simply existing in the deepest harmony we can, with each other and with God.
Growing up, food meant love. Food meant community. Every time I visited my grandparents’ house, my whole family squeezed around a small table and ate sweet potatoes and pot roast, corn bread and pinto beans, the meals my grandma knew we loved. In the frantic hours after we found out my uncle had died suddenly of a heart attack, people showed up with fried chicken and sweet tea. When someone had a new baby, my mom baked casseroles and tossed salads to bring. The church I grew up in had so many potlucks it became a running joke.
Food is the language I learned to love in. My soul and body were nourished, often at the same time, by communities built around kitchen tables.
Is it any wonder that I love communion, the feast the Lord invites us to?
Communion is more than just a ritual for me: it’s the way I understand community best, the thing that keeps me coming back to the church when I would rather walk away. And the symbolism of communion- the bread and the wine, the body and blood of Christ- is woven throughout the Bible, even into the Hebrew name of Bethlehem. Jesus was born in a town whose name literally means “house of bread,” a prophecy of brokenness and abundance.
A feast for a snaggletoothed, holy people.
That’s what I was reminded of when, eight days before Thanksgiving, I set out fresh bread and poured grape juice into my tulip-patterned coffee cup from Bulgaria. My teammates and I sat in a circle of flickering candlelight as I taught them the way I had grown up taking communion: tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the cup, getting to offer my friends the redemptive power of Christ just as they offered it to me.
We took communion again at Thanksgiving dinner, over turkey and fresh rolls and every starch imaginable. Not in so many words, but in the delight we took in each other’s company. The way our souls seemed to peek out to look at each other and say, “I recognize the Spirit in you, because it’s is here in me, too.”
This month, my team has chosen to show up and love each other, even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard. We’ve chosen thanksgiving over and over again.
It tastes an awful lot like sweet wine. It tastes like grace.
