I had one of those moments Sunday that was a pure and utter gift from heaven. And it came when I least expected it and most needed it.
You see, I was wiped out. I was bent in a left-leaning “C” from having 24 lbs. constantly clinging to my side all week, groggy from lack of sleep, irritated by my too-weak new glasses, and a little depressed over how behind I had gotten this last week.
It seemed like a beautiful respite at the communion rail, but mostly because of the chance to be on my knees. My stare was fixated on the purple altar cloth with little woven lambs and latin abbreviations when I numbly took the bread. But when the wine was tipped to me, the red color caught my eyes like a sparkling jewel, and it was a good thing I was on my knees already.
His blood. For me.
Really, it seems at once wholly familiar and utterly out-of-this world that the King of the universe, eternally begotten from the Father, should have literally suffered and given up his entire body for one like me that was more interested on this Sunday morning in cataloguing my minor complaints than worshipping Him (uh, that was a long sentence). That through His mercy, he still reached down to tap me gently on the shoulder and then, like a thunderbolt, show Me His love for me expressed in the cup.
Oh, how I love Him.