Yesterday, I took our two-year-old son with me to church while Andrew stayed home sick with the other two. Still on crutches for a suspected stress fracture in my hip, I relied on my friends/pew-mates to help my son make it up to the alter with me for communion.
No sooner had we gotten settled at the alter rail, my son on my left, friends on my right, than did I look over to see my little ones’ index finger crammed two knuckles deep into his nose. Just as the priest approached to hand us our wafers. After quickly pulling the finger out of the nose, stifling the laughter that threatened to interrupt the heavenly calm in the nave, I cupped my hands just in time to receive the bread for both Gabe and I–after which, I made sure I dipped my son’s wafer into the wine chalice. I figured, the sharing of the bread and wine during Eucharist should only go so far.