The end of the weekend. The end of the Sabbath. Back to the grindstone. Monday.
Seems to happen every week.
Today (yesterday to you) was a typical Sunday. Our church celebrates Communion every week, and we went with the kids to receive as usual. It's still new enough to them that they're visibly excited, and I'm glad they are; it's easy to take routines for granted.
A few years ago, the Princess got sick and ended up in the hospital. It was a hard week, our toddler lying in a big hospital bed with tubes sticking out of her hand. She burned with fever for days.
I remember staring out the hospital window on the third day, drenched in tears. Worry was a river pulling me under. We ended up staying there five days, Princess with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, and I thought I'd never forget it.
But the truth is I've forgotten so much. When Princess visited a new specialist a year later, the doctor probed me for details. She wondered about lymph nodes and liver involvement and CBCs and medications. I was shocked that I just did not remember.
The main things I remember about that week are the people: my toddler, who didn't cry at the vampire blood-draws; the Preacher beside me and Little Man watching Disney movies in a stupor; our church friends who visited; the pastor of another church, who brought us Starbucks; the friend who watched Little Man for us one day; and my parents, who showed up just in time to catch me before I collapsed.
And I remember wanting nothing more than to go home with my family.
I wanted a normal day.
Isn't it funny how interruptions will do that? Sleeping in our own beds and eating our own food and sitting in our own living room and even cleaning up our own messes: Those were the things I wanted most that week.
Turns out routines are a gift. Normal things are just what we need.
Today on the ride home from church, I started thinking about the physical things we use for Communion. They're symbols, and they're simple: bread and wine (or grape juice). Those were the elements at the Last Supper, and they're still the things we use.
By design, they're ordinary.
The God who could've chosen any symbols for His death, who could've called for, y'know, caviar and truffles and the most elaborate specialty coffee drink at Starbucks, chose bread and wine. There may be a deep meaning behind those foods, and I'll leave that to the scholars.
But what strikes me is this:
Jesus chose regular food and drink to remind us of His death. On the Lord's Day, we remember Him with physical symbols - things we can hold in our hands and bring into our bodies.
It's just an ordinary day with ordinary people, celebrating the truth of an extraordinary love.
And that's what makes it so precious.
Enjoying the ordinary,