“I hope there is communion today.” My housemates would patiently smile and nod when I repeated this mantra for the umpteenth Sunday in a row. Each Sunday morning we would scrape ourselves together from our various beds, plug in the three tiny coffee pots in the kitchen, and cobble together anecdotes from our weekends before we went our separate ways for church. Roommate camaraderie at its finest.

Sunday was the consistency I needed. And at the root of that consistency was the potential for communion.

I’m not sure what it is precisely for me. The tangible nature? Sometimes at church I get lost in lengthy prayers and Bible passages and theological musings. They often serve more as a comforting lull. But then the sermon wraps up and everything becomes much clearer and more vibrant when it is time to shuffle up the front and proudly claim my lump of bread to be promptly eaten. So simple. So straightforward. And it just feels so real.

Last Sunday I attended in-person church for the first time since last March. I could hardly breathe when I stepped in the door. While I attended online church regularly for the whole year, it often felt very hazy and lacking in reality. I know that one song I sang in Sunday school told me that “the church is not a building,” but without the building it proved difficult to convince myself that was true. What my heart craved was tangible, and all that I got was virtual.

The return to church proved almost too much for my body to handle. During the scripture reading I started shaking because my emotions were on overdrive. The stained glass, the Christ candle, the uncomfortable pew, it was all so painfully real. I could barely bring myself to check the bulletin to see if we had communion. I was worried that if we did I might actually pass out from emotional overstimulation.

Here’s how I see it. You come to church the mess of undiluted humanity that you are. You spent another week avoiding people and eating five-pound bags of Skittles and texting your ex-boyfriend and not doing your share of cleaning around the house. You cover up your mess with a nice floral dress and a braid. Then communion rolls around, you stare into the depths of your grape juice shot and you believe that Jesus chose to die for you even though he knows you are a verified mess. Unconditional love takes the form of a bit of bread.

After a year without that reminder, I feel like a dishrag that was wrung out too much. I just don’t have quite enough to give anymore.

I know faith is about being certain of what I cannot see. But that little lump of bread somehow makes it easier to be certain.

Last Sunday we did not have communion, so I did not have to be revived in the back of the church by a bunch of concerned old women waving bulletins at me. But I am holding out hope that sometime soon I will be standing in line, singing about “tasting and seeing the goodness of the Lord,” and ready for my tangible reminder that God thinks I’m worth it.

Susannah Boersma

Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).