This bread was given to us Sunday morning, when we attended a new church. We have not been regular attenders of any church this year. Between Adam's rotating schedule and having Lily, the church going was pushed aside. Add in the disillusionment of visiting a handful of churches that are all carbon copies of each other (and not in a good way), and you have our church story for the past two years or so.
We toyed with becoming Episcopalian or Catholic, but it just didn't feel right. And we've been to more mini megachurches than I'd care to admit. We decided we wanted some tradition, some structure, and that we just needed a place to call home. So Sunday we went Presbyterian. In fact, we went to a church that is literally around the corner from our former residence, a church we've walked by at least a thousand times (no joke).
We found ourselves not in a sanctuary, but a small room with round tables and a small stage for singers and musicians. And as soon as we walked in, we were welcomed by a half dozen people and offered coffee. We took Lily to the nursery (where she would proceed to pee through all of her clothes and, of course, Mommy hadn't packed an extra outfit) and returned to sing Christmas carols and old, old songs I haven't sung in years. I got quite choked up when we sang "There is None Like You."
I looked around and saw the biggest bunch of misfits -- a few homeless people who had walked in from the street, some handicapped, and smattering of less-than-hip-ly dressed folks. In fact, the entire service was slightly imperfect, but in a wonderful way. Afterward we talked with just about everyone in the room, and one woman brought us this loaf of bread and told us she was thankful we were there.
This morning, I sliced the bread and ate it while I drank my coffee and thought about how I'd really like to go back.