Harry* began attending Millbrook United Methodist Church a few years ago. He’s probably in his late 70’s or early 80’s; someone invited him to church shortly after his wife died, and he’s been faithful ever since. Harry always smiles, and his eyes twinkle behind thick bifocals. He has a firm handshake and large, gnarly hands, bearing witness to a lifetime of hard work. My conversations with Harry never go further than, “Hello,” or “Have a great week,” or “God bless you”; yet, somehow, that is enough. We have developed a connection that doesn't need words. When we share in the Lord’s Supper at church, the congregation comes forward and kneels at the rail, and then Ben and I serve them the elements. I make sure that as I offer the elements to each person, I say their name, followed by “the gift of God for the (woman or man) of God.” When I get to Harry, I say his name, and am about to continue when I am greeted with a loud “Hiya!” I pause for a moment and look into his smiling face; then, I grasp his rough hand as I offer him the cup, into which he dips his hunk of bread. After putting the soggy piece into his mouth, he says, while still chewing, “Thanks!” I am humbled, and fight back a tear or two as I offer the blood of Christ to the next person. I finally get it. Harry is thankful, and I am too.
*name changed.
