Gretchen Gilbert

Mrs. Kusinitz

Writing 104 H

25 January 2018

Communion

The first row of people rise out of their scratchy beige chairs and file out one end,

get their little triangle of pita bread and tiny cup of grape juice from a silver platter, and

file back in the other end. Then, the next row, going through the same progression. It is

a monotonous spectacle. I instead stare ahead at the stage with searing spotlights

highlighting all the metallic instruments that are used for making the worship music. My

eyes wander to the drum set and I am instantly met with a blinding reflection off the

brass symbols. I quickly dart my eyes away and see that above all the instruments,

hanging from two cable wires, is a huge cross made of two intersecting wooden beams.

It dangles in the air precariously in the dramatic spotlight. So prominent and distinct, it

becomes slightly discomforting.

Seated to my left is Gram. Only a few inches separate our legs. Her pastel green

cotton capris next to my dark wash denim jeans creates a stark contrast.

I shift in my seat again, trying to get comfortable. Suddenly Gram looks to me

and quietly asks, “Do you go up to take communion?” I turn to her and shrug my

shoulders up and down replying, “I don’t know.”

“Ask your father,” she responds.

 I look down the aisle to my right, and a few seats down is my father, between us

my stepmother and her mother. I lean my body forward slightly and ask in a hushed

voice, “Dad do I go up and take communion?” With his head stuck out from the row

leaning towards me, he earnestly questions, “Well do you believe in God?”

I stare at him for a moment and utter, “I don’t know.”

While still looking his way, I feel my face begin to get hot as I sit back in my

scratchy chair, staring at the patterned carpet. It rises from within me. My muscles tense

up, and my face quivers. Finally, I let go. I am no longer in control of myself. All of my

stifled emotions take the form of warm tears streaming down my face. They flow from

me freely as if floodgates had opened. I shut myself off from my surroundings by

arching my back and angling my shoulders inwards, my eyes intently focused on my

hands resting in one another. ​I really just don’t know. Am I supposed to believe in God?

Is that the right thing to do?

Through the corner of my eye, I glance back at my father. Looking at him now, it

is difficult to fathom that he was once a man who believed in science. He never would

have thought that God created the universe. Instead, he accredited our universe to the

result of the Big Bang theory. Never would he accept the stories in the bible or that God

was even real. But people change. Now, he believes Jesus rose from the dead, Adam

and Eve were real people, and subscribes intently to the word of God. So we started to

go to church on Sundays. Even going to church for events not on Sundays. Surely then,

I had to believe in God too. I had to believe Jesus rose from the dead, that Adam and

Eve were real people, and subscribe intently to God’s word. ​Right?
 While still in the midst of my confusion and instability, my stepmother rises out of

her seat, grabs my hand, and ushers me through the aisle. Up and over people we go,

weaving through the tangles of legs and shoes, and through the big swinging doors, out

into the hall. She brings me through one more set of doors, but this time out into the

daylight. We settle at a small wooden table with matching chairs. The air helps to bring

me a bit of clarity. I sit just on the edge of the chair, not allowing myself to get

comfortable. ​What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? ​Through my sobs, my

stepmother tries to question me: “What’s wrong?”, “What is making you upset?”, “Do

you want to talk about it?” I give her nothing in return. Trying to explain the turmoil

happening in my head would be useless as I can not even make sense of it myself.

Just when the flood seems like it is letting up, another wave comes. I cry, and I

cry, and I cry. Everything that had been living within me could no longer be tamed. Yet

it was almost as if my tears were slowly releasing all the anger, confusion, and tension

that had been steadily building inside me and with each drop, I felt lighter.

My father began his quest to show me God a few months before this. He would

tell me that I could go to Bible Camp for a couple weeks over the summer, or be apart of

the kids prayer group on Wednesdays. I never offered my opinion on it, I didn't say

much at all. I was afraid.

I tried to make sense of it all in my head. I was never baptized, never went to

CCD, never made my first communion. I was completely practiced in having no religion

at all. So inevitably, when I unwrapped a “Bible for Kids” on Christmas morning, I was

confused. I did not know what to believe or what I ​should​ believe. I never knew God, or
Jesus, or any of this weird praying and worshiping stuff. Because of this, I felt guilty:

guilty that I wasn’t engaging in all the activities he suggested, guilty that I never sang

the worship songs, guilty that I was disappointing my father by not following his

guidance.

I know he wanted me to go. I know he wanted me to experience the “power of

God,” just as he had. He wanted me to believe what he now thought was the right

answer to life’s questions. He wanted what he thought was best for me. Despite his

efforts, it only pressured me. He wanted me to go from nothing to something. I was not

ready to “love God” if I had not met him. Many times during the sermons, the preachers

or other members of the church would speak about this epiphanic time when they finally

discovered God. I never had that experience. I awaited the grand day when God would

signal to me that he was real, that I would discover him, just as my dad and so many

others had.

But that day still has yet to come. My bible that I unwrapped on Christmas

morning sits on a shelf in my closet, neglected by feelings of uncertainty and disarray,

while specks of dust settle on its cover. Yet my guilt diminished and I now see the world

clearly through my own interpretation, with a new perspective.

And on that same beautiful Sunday morning, I sat there, letting myself go. I

continued to release my confusion, frustration, and guilt. I remained hunched over in

that rigid chair as tear after tear traveled the length of my blotchy cheeks, to the edge of

my jaw and then let go, landing on one of my knuckles. Each one of these drops took

with it a part of the weight that I had been carrying. I continued to feel lighter and lighter
because of it - almost as if I could fly if I had just lifted my feet off the ground. I then

raised my head to see the clouds swirling, birds flying overhead, and faintly hear a room

full of people singing in harmony, worshiping their almighty God.

Before I knew it, the last tear had dropped, the singing came to a halt, and

people began filing out the doors and into their cars.