As he put the Host into each hand, he repeated the mantra, "The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven," letting his fingers rest for a split second on the palm of each pair of hands, his eyes briefly making contact with each person's face. He had done it for so long that he knew how to time it -- just long enough for each person to know that they had been seen, but not so long that he intruded into their time with God. Those glances were always so shockingly intimate, so vulnerable as each person reached up to touch God through the Host. Somehow he felt that he had been let into each person's life for just a moment at an unusual depth; it was always a bit unsettling to see into a person's soul. Sometimes he wondered what they saw when they looked back at him. "The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven," and he placed the Host into the next person's hand, briefly looking up into the eyes and finding himself locked by an incredibly blue gaze, early sky blue, ice blue, drowning blue. He jerked his head away, uncomfortable with what he had glimpsed. He glanced back as he went along the altar rail, and found the man looking back at him, too. He paused, lost. Then he carried on, forcing himself to focus on each person kneeling before him, "The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven."
The service went on. He moved through the ablutions, the cleaning up of the vessels at the end of communion, said the final prayer and blessing, and moved into place for the closing hymn. Thank God he had been doing this for so many years! It was only his memory that carried him through. His conscious mind was still back at the altar rail, looking into the eyes of a man he didn't know -- but yet did. Who was he?
As the procession wound its way out to the back, he just couldn't help himself; he looked around the church with its rows of singing people, but he didn't see him. Maybe the man had left after receiving communion? He took his place at the back, said the dismissal and prepared to shake hands. He took off his vestments, standing there in his alb, and began to greet people, asking questions, pressing hands, touching shoulders, looking into people's eyes as they began to file out of the church. Here a new widow, there a young couple newly married, here a child with a hand-drawn picture as a gift for him, there a middle-aged man in a troubled marriage -- one after another, they each claimed his attention for a quick, quiet word. He became lost in the reality of all those needs, and all that pain; yet still a small part of his mind wondered, who was he? Somewhere in the middle of the receiving line, a new hand shook his, and those blue eyes looked at him. He flinched, unused to someone looking at him that way, to seeing a deep yearning that matched his own.
"Welcome. I'm Father John. I'm glad you came to be with us this morning."
"I'm Chuck. I'm new to the area and thought I'd give this church a try."
"Well, I'm glad you did. Please stay and have some coffee. I'd like to chat with you, get to know you better."
"OK."
The line moved on, he turned to greet the next person in line and noticed that his hand was still holding Chuck's. He let go suddenly, shocked by his actions. Giving himself a little, imperceptible shake, he offered his hand to the next person, reaching down to the child wanting to be picked up. He couldn't believe what was happening. He was glad that his robes hid his physical reaction to this stranger. It would be embarrassing -- for everyone -- if they could see underneath the robes.
He finished the line and moved into the coffee hour, that unofficial sacrament of the Church. He moved through the crowd, seeking a cup of something to drink, feeling the tiredness of a full morning beginning to creep up on him.
"Here, I brought you a glass of cold water. You looked like you could use it." Chuck had suddenly appeared at his elbow with the glass.
"Thanks. You're right."
Fingers touched as the glass changed hands, a small electrical charge sparking. They looked at each other, the glass held between them. John took it, trying to cover up the fumbling and the surprise. He drank, needing the refreshment, needing the time to pull himself together.
"This may sound brash, but do you want to go to lunch?" asked Chuck. John hesitated. "If it doesn't work with your schedule, that's OK. Perhaps another time?"
"No! I mean, yes...I'd love to have lunch. I won't be free for another twenty to thirty minutes though. Is that OK?"
"Yep."
Chuck smiled, and John felt his own grin spread across his face.
"Good. I'll see you in a few minutes then."
Somehow he felt free to go about his usual busyness now, buoyed up by a good feeling that he couldn't explain. He glad-handed his way through the crowd, saying all the right things, making mental notes of the people with whom he needed to do some follow-up. He got to the other side and ducked into his office, taking off his robes and hanging them up, sitting down at the desk to write some reminder notes to himself. When he looked up, there was Chuck lounging in the doorway. He smiled.
"Checking up on me to make sure I don't forget?"
"Well, you were certainly pretty preoccupied with everything around you...just making sure."
"I wasn't going to forget, Chuck. You can be sure of that," John said firmly.
Chuck quirked an eyebrow, looking at him with a wry smile, then he laughed. "Well, let's go then, if you're ready."
"Your car or mine?" John suddenly blushed at the unintended double-entendre. Chuck laughed again. He offered, "Let's take my car. We can come back for yours after lunch."