A Meal with Jesus

Your hands are strong.

Fingers that once worked with wood and touched
lepers now envelop this loaf of bread.

You forcefully and gracefully tear the bread
while directing your gaze my way.
So intentional.

As if to say, I see you.
I’m glad you’re here.
Don’t miss this.
Don’t miss me.

You offer the bread as my begging hands
reach out, unsure if I can receive your blessing.

What am I holding?

No ordinary loaf of bread.
This has pain and suffering baked into the crust.

My fingers push past the outer layer
and I feel tenderness within.
Untouched by the brutality of this
world, the inner meat is soft and sweet.

I breathe it in.
The fresh smell of love burned clean.

The cup and the bread.
The blood and the body.
Your blood? Surely not.

My friend, how could I ever let you
go through the agony and torture that awaits?
How is this your fate?

Still, my hungry body takes in the bread.
I’m in no hurry.

Are you?

There is more to learn.
More to enjoy.
More life to live together.

Then I hear you say, “…until.”
Thank God this is not the end.

The bread and the wine mean more
than a filling meal with a friend.
They are your invitation to me.
They are my invitation to you.

I go with you.
Your friend who is seen by you also sees you.

I weep with you.
Our tears are in this wine.

The bread is being digested now.
May it sustain you through your journey.

The empty cup is left behind
while you carry the bitter fruit all the way
past the garden.

You need to stay hydrated. May this be
enough for both of us.