On the way to church last Sunday, our 5-year-old foster son, John, got scolded in the car by his 14-year-old foster brother, Ben. It all started because someone had dropped part of a croissant on the floor of the back seat of the Suburban a few days before and had left it there to decompose.
Our cars seem to be compost bins for all kinds of hurried snacks throughout the week. By week’s end it’s not uncommon to have a half-dozen paper coffee cups, three or four empty water bottles, a couple of soda cans or soda cups from drive-thru windows, French fries containers, candy wrappers, dirty napkins, apple cores, banana skins, stray peanuts and M&Ms and raisins littering the floors of the cars.
On his way to his seat in the very back of the Suburban Sunday morning, John had picked up the stale croissant and crammed the whole thing into his mouth. As though that alone wasn’t sickening enough, what John didn’t know was that someone had tracked dog poop into the car earlier in the week, and it had gotten smeared on the floor of the backseat pretty much exactly where the croissant had been. Sure, we’d cleaned it up. But not enough that you’d want to eat off it.
Ben was horrified. He ordered John to spit out the croissant. And the more he directed John to spit it out, the more John tried to hang onto it, and swallow it fast.
John, who has some trauma-related issues from earlier on in his life, tends to struggle with food. He’s great about eating just about anything we give him. But not so great when it comes to slowing down, sharing, or not eating something. He’ll eat whatever he can find. And chewing is optional.
Ben had ended up trying to pry as much of the croissant out of John’s mouth as he could reach. By the time they arrived at church 20 minutes later, the hood of John’s rain slicker was pulled up and over his head, covering most of his face. He walked stiff legged, and held his arms stiffly to his sides. His head was down, face void of emotion. He walked into church, and to our pew, without removing his coat from his head.
And Ben was two steps behind him. Exasperated. Frustrated. Irritated.
As I had driven the earlier carload to church, I was quickly briefed on the events of the car ride. I thanked Ben for looking out for his little brother, even though his watchfulness was clearly not appreciated. Then I took John aside.
I explained to him that we don’t eat old food off the floor of the car. I explained that someone had tracked dog poop into the car a few days earlier to the very spot where the croissant was. I reminded him that we always have enough food to eat at our house, and that he doesn’t need to eat something just because it’s there. I assured him that he will not grow hungry without being fed. I repeated these ideas several times, hoping they might sink into his understanding. He stood in front of me, head still down, face covered.
I waited a moment. Then I added that he was lucky to have such a good big brother who didn’t want him to eat something that was dirty, which might make him sick.
He looked up at me then. I asked him if Ben had taken the icky bread away from him. He nodded.
I said, “Well, isn’t it a good thing that Ben was there to get that away from you so you didn’t get sick from eating something that was icky?”
He nodded again, ever so slightly. Then he laid his head down on my lap.
I hugged him back, and suggested that once he got his coat off he might go give Ben a hug to thank him for helping to take good care of John.
No more was said. But a second later, John was shrugging out of his rain slicker. Then he scooted over to where an irritated, teenaged Ben was sitting, and laid his head down on Ben’s lap, with his arms to Ben’s sides. Ben glanced over at me. I nodded. And he wrapped his arms around John and patted his back.
I heard John whisper that he was sorry. And heard Ben answer that it was okay. And I thought that was the end of it. Until a little later, during communion, when the rest of the story came to me.
As we all knelt at the communion rail, little John, kneeling beside big Ben, put out his open hands, palms up, on the rail. The sign that he expected to receive communion.
Communion. A covenant with God. Our acceptance of a living God’s desire to have a relationship with each one of God’s kids. We take in the bread and wine. Symbolizing that we want this relationship, too. We accept this gift. We want God in us, in our lives. We want what God promises. To commune with each one of us.
And there knelt 5-year-old John, who an hour earlier, had crammed into his mouth a leftover piece of dirty, stale croissant that he’d found on the floor of the backseat of the Suburban. And had become upset when that bread was refused him. Now with his hands on the rail, he was waiting eagerly for the pastor to give him the bread. And say the blessing. Reminding him of the promise. Which he probably doesn’t even understand. But it’s a promise to him, nonetheless. John knelt, eagerly waiting, hands outstretched, for the bread. The new bread, that had been blessed on the altar. The Bread, given specially for John.
And I knelt a few feet away, thinking about how often I’m in such a hurry to grab what I can, thinking of me, wanting whatever’s available. Really, just stale, dirty crumbs from the floor of the car. Instead of waiting for the blessings God has in mind for me. Waiting for what’s been promised. For what’s been blessed. Like the Bread of Life. Given for me.
penniesonmypath 