My daughter leaned into me as
we shared the tattered Hymns of Our Faith.
She heartily sang “Just As I am Without One Plea,”
all seven verses of it.

My daughter watched
(like the scrawny, barefoot children on the street
who follow my every move and hold out empty bowls)
the cubes of white bread then the plastic shots of juice
pass her by.

She’d been briefed; by parents who’d been informed—
only adult believers may join the communion feast here.

She watched me swallow,
hunger in her eyes and whispered
“Was it good?”

Did I somehow misunderstand
“Let the little children come to me?”

“The bread was soft and chewy,
but the ‘wine’ tasted like cough syrup,”
I whispered back.

**********

At church back home
children join this holy sacrament.
All are welcome—
you come as you are, age 5 or 95,
to the table.

I remember how she’d carefully cup
the bit of bread, chew the morsel
then hold as precious the silver goblet and
solemnly drink the dash of juice,
not fully understanding
(and here I confess, neither do I)
yet pleased to partake
in the sacred ritual of remembrance.

I miss the communal clink
of a hundred and fifty chalices
settling securely into round holders
on the back of each dark,
scarred wooden pew.

***********

On the way home we chewed sweet boiled peanuts,
sold by the Muslim girls who wait outside the church walls,
and fed the shells to the wind.

—Brenda Hartman-Souder