We walked into church like any other week. Five kids in tow, rummaging through all our stuff, settling into the pew, picking apart bickering, preparing our hearts for the service. It seemed typical, but God knew it was a deeper communing this Sunday. My girl, she leans in close. She runs her fingers through my hair, and I can see there is something important there in her eyes. “They are here. George and Connie. They are here.” And she’s right. She sees them. For the first time since God sent Covid, we see them in this safe place. And it’s like time stops. My firstborn turns around and we wave at these precious old souls. “Grandma” Connie-she eagerly grins back at us, wiggling her aged bony fingers back to us from afar. She looks older than a year ago. Her wheelchair holds her up, headphones cover her ears-she is anxious to hear the preaching in person. I can tell, she’s ready to be fed. A bright red sweater covers her frame, contrasting her hoary head. Her hair is shining through white as snow with the wisdom her ninety-some years hold. Our kids have missed running up to her before church, gently hugging her before we go to our pew. They know she is dear. That she is gentle and worn. They know she loves large. She is beautiful.
I glance back at him…the old man. He is tired. This time of sickness, it has dragged him down too. The piano has begun to sing its praise. I try to beckon him a hello. A simple wave of the hand. But he doesn’t see. He doesn’t know that my eye is beholding all of him. The tears are flowing with no one to wipe them…with nothing to catch them. He is weeping. Unashamedly weeping. The notes play and the lament continues to pour down his face. He doesn’t try to dam it up. He lets it go. It’s as if he is remembering something. As if he had been sitting by the streams of Babel for so long, the wind carrying away his sorrows. And now he is here…remembering. I watch him without guilt. I take it in. His tears run into my soul and I hear the moans of his heart. He is in the Lord’s house, with the people who are his people. So long he has been away from his family-and for this moment, he is held in the same building as them. He is communing. He is streaming with emotion…and it’s breath-taking. It is more awe-invoking and thought provoking than the greatest and longest landscape I have seen in my 28 years. I long to hold him in tight embrace-to tell I am holding the unspoken silence of his heart from my seat that is so close to him, yet seemingly so far away.
We commune together. Our hearts are broken. Sin has shattered us. Sickness has marred us. But the bread is split in two. For the first time in a long time, I am focused on something other than the kids who are stealing my attention, trying to smell my wine and touch my bread. I blur out the hopes of not spilling the wine plate I pass along. I am tunneled in on the communion…all that intimate fellowship. I’m focused on the words of the minister. The unabashed tears of my 91 year-old brother. The faith God gave that knits us together. The shared sin we hold. The same hope we have. “The bread which we break is the communion of the body of Christ.” I close my eyes, let it all wash over me. I know it to be true…His body was broken for me. Things may not always make sense. My failings seemingly drown me at times. There might not always be an explanation for the unseen, but we don’t always need explanation. Nothing compares to Father’s warm arms that hold me through Jesus. This makes sense when nothing else does.
We sing it. The testimony of his heart. The testimony of all of our hearts… “A broken spirit is to God a pleasing sacrifice, a broken and a contrite heart Thou, Lord, wilt not despise.” We fellowship over the nourishment these words rain on us. It is manna for our hungry souls. I feel the weaving of our hearts, the sameness we all share. The friendship is deep within me. And I let the tear slip. God will catch it and store it in His bottle.
I need to tell them before they leave. I don’t know when they will be back again. I don’t know what time will do between this week and the next. I need to spill over that I love them. I tell him I saw his tears-that they tuned my heart to sing God’s praise. That communion was extra special for me this time…I felt close to them as we remembered what Jesus did for us. He pats my one slender hand between his two wrinkled. He lets them flow again…all those shattered tears. “You come over soon, ok? All of you. The whole family. Kids too.” Ok George…we will. Why haven’t we done this more? Why didn’t I send that note last spring? And where were my thoughts of them last summer? Yes…we have prayed for them. But I didn’t tell them soon enough. They are just little children weeping as they are held by Father. They have great faith. Yes…we will visit. Giving that small visit always leaves us feeling full. They don’t know it, but they have given overwhelming joy as they have borne their hearts, not afraid to slice through with their burdens. They are teaching me it’s ok to weep. It’s ok when you don’t have concrete words, but you let the tears do the talking. They have shown me friendship. I want to thank them for their brokenness. I want to say it’s ok to cry. That the bleeding of our hearts is all paid for with the blood of Christ…what we just commemorated. I long to tell them that brokenness has brought closeness. I see that these tired pilgrims are brave soldiers. They know much of brokenness. And watching them…I just longed to share those spaces with them. I wasn’t afraid of the sting it may bring. Let it cut through me. They weren’t afraid to live broken. And it made me feel so whole. It enveloped me as we remembered God’s giving.
She tells me the flowers we brought at Easter are still making it. Just a couple have survived, but she looks at them and it makes her happy. And that is good-a beacon of hope for her weary soul. I tell her I love her. That deep bowel kind of love. And others around me…I see them waiting to tell her the same thing. That they love her…and it is good to see the ridges of their faces in person. And those others? I see some of their tears too…we are all sharing in the broken. Our hearts choke a little bit, and it’s all a bit of healing in the strangest way. I remember His suffering brought our healing. As I look into the weathered faces of my kindred spirits, and of those other elderly members we have just seen for the first time in a such a long time, I remember Jesus. And I am thankful they have given me a bit of their broken spirit. The tears mark their cheeks and I remember we are marked with Christ. Let the tears fall. There is no shame in tears that water praise and prayer. Let them come…let the tears come.
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