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From The Nethermost
I reasoned to myself this way: It is Christmas Eve and no one really knows what all needs to be done this evening in addition to getting dinner on the table. Besides, there is the plan to ring the church bell after services. The boys will enjoy that. We got the boys cleaned up after a run around the Nethermost with their bow and arrows. These toys had been Advent Gifts which the boys received in their Lutheran family traditions. My son and I dressed in Christmas Eve chic, and we were off for church in the old pickup truck. It seemed proper to warn the preacher as we were greeted at the door what he should expect at Christmas Communion from the young boys. In the Lutheran Church, it seems that all children go to the altar and, while they do not take communion until after baptism, they kneel there while their minister blesses them using some appropriate quotation. This seemed fine. The oldest grandson held the song book open during all the Christmas songs and added a strong voice to the singing of “Joy to the World.” After we sat down for what was promised to be a short message, this grandson announced to the two pews in front of us that his little brother had gone to sleep. Of course, this was not a reflection on the quality of the sermon, it was just what little boys do when required to sit still for the first time in about 12 hours. After the sermon, there was the invitation. The preacher reminded us all that we were to celebrate an open communion. While he did not mention my grandsons in particular, everyone was invited to this celebration of the birth of the Messiah. I didn’t even know the oldest grandson was listening. “We heard “The Messiah” driving from Atlanta.” “Shhh.” As the queue moved back toward our row, I looked to my son for directions. I found that he was looking to me for directions. There was no hesitation for the oldest grandson. He was moving to the aisle. I am sure there was some quandary in my son’s mind. Should he leave the sleeping son on the pew, or go to the communion rail in case he needed to rescue his father? He made the choice to let the sleeping boy lie. I know that you are supposed to approach communion with seriousness appropriate for the occasion. It is also appropriate to make confessions at that time, so I confess here in public: There was a smile on my face as it entered my head that sheer pandemonium would break loose in this solemn service if little brother awoke, looked around for a familiar face, and announced to all present that he had been abandoned in a strange land. Rarely do greatest expectations or worst fears actually come to pass, so father, son, and the holy terror knelt at the altar. I ended up in the middle. We knelt dutifully respectful, hands folded on the rail. The plate containing the pieces of unleavened bread passed to me. Grandson watched as I took one and then he did too. “What do I do with this?” he whispered. “Put it in your mouth. Shhh.” Good boy. He did. I opened my eyes when I heard the spitting sound. The unleavened bread was back in his hand and he was looking up at me. “Now what, Granddaddy?” he asked. “Swallow it, boy! Shhh.” I watched. You would think he had the entire loaf of bread in his mouth with the elaborate chewing that followed. “This too will pass,” I prayed. The minister, not completely oblivious to what was going on over on the western side of the communion rail, was obliged to continue with the sacred ritual. “Take. Drink. This is my blood which was shed for you.” I was relieved when the kid managed to get the tiny cup out of the serving disk without sticking a finger in any of the others. I should tell you that this grandson is the only picky eater in his entire family for the past three generations. But, picky he is. “Is this really blood?” “No. It’s grape juice. Shhh.” Picky eater? Yeah. You wouldn’t believe it if you had seen him on Christmas Eve. Instead, you would think that he was a wine connoisseur. First, he held the cup under his nose and inhaled the full-bodied aroma. Then, he held the cup to his mouth and let the liquid touch his lips. “Hurry, everyone else is getting up.” I thought we were going to be served a second time before it was over. It took three swigs for him to drain the entire cup. Finally, it was over and we could rejoin blessed Little Brother still asleep on the pew. I must say that the folks in the pew behind us seemed to be filled with Christmas cheer. It all started as we sat down and my grandson held up a small, tiny glass, “What do I do with this, Granddaddy?”
Jim Herod is a retired Georgia Tech professor who lives in Grove Hill.
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