Over and over again, the words “this is the blood of Christ shed for you” spilled out of my mouth. And as I repeated that phrase, I realized that I offered grace to each that dipped the bread into the juice. My hands. My voice. My unworthiness. My frantic Sunday-morning frustrations. My lack of experience distributing the elements. Myself, as a part of the Body of Christ, offering mercy and grace and forgiveness for those who would receive.

We have to do this. As members of the Body, we have to do this–there’s no one else who will extend this mercy and grace and forgiveness to others, in His name and by His death. And, this Sunday, I did. And they received.

Some immediately rose and got in line. Some knelt at the altar before they approached. Some held the hand of their very young or very old loved one. Others trickled in much later, after the line had dwindled. Some said “thank you.” Some said “amen.” Some just smiled. Others crossed themselves afterwards–forehead, heart, shoulder, shoulder. And some didn’t even make eye contact.

But that’s ok. I saw everyone of them.

And I saw how they each, in their own unique way, came forward. And I realized that it didn’t matter if they “amened” or cried. Or if they thanked me. Or thanked God.

All that mattered was that they approached with open hands.

All that mattered was that they received.

And I had to ask myself, in the midst of all my mumbling over the Blood: do I receive the very mercy I hold in my hands?

How’s it go? “It is in giving that we recieve.”

When’s the last time you really gave? Figuratively or literally held in your hands the very thing of faith and life for someone else? And how can we all do that more often?