When we moved here we were looking for a church home and we attended lots of churches to find the right one. Because of that, we had communion lots of different ways. Some churches do it every Sunday, some every six weeks, some quarterly-- I’m pretty positive that regardless of when we were there we caught them on communion week at every church.
During that moment they leave for personal prayer and reflection I remember staring at the floor, washed in the fullness of my heartbreak and my fear and with my heart pounding out of my chest, saying the same prayer every time: I trust you.
I trust you.
At first I would sit and try to reflect on my salvation, to remember what Jesus did, what God gave. By the end I hurt so bad that I just got straight to the point.
I trust you.
I trust when it hurts. I trust through my tears. I trust when it doesn’t feel good. Each week I chose to trust. Each week that bread, cracker, or wafer and that wine or juice were my tangible moment to dedicate myself, to put my stake in the ground, to chose for the next week, no matter what I’d trust.
Each time my heart squeaked out that tiny, all encompassing prayer. It was my own widow’s mite--it looks so small but it was everything I had.
It was everything.
Every single week the word trust would release a flood of hot, painful tears no matter if I was standing at the front of the church or sitting in my pew.
But let me tell you something now from the higher ground. In the valley and on the summit, it was the same…my trust was safely placed.
You can trust him. I promise.
Even when it hurts.