They move as one, shuffling, scuffing shoes on the floor, leaving subtle marks that they lived that moment. To remind the janitor that they were there, and he'll acknowledge the trace of their existence before buffing it gently away.
Each worshipper gathers in his seat, facing forwards, eyes and heart lifted towards the cross that presides over it all, a good luck charm, a token, a reminder of why each came. Holding high their voices in humble offering, they give back to God in holy adoration. Feeble, airy, deep, melodious, out of tune. The voices rise as individuals, yet join in swelling harmony as they make their way towards heaven. First filling the air around them, cavorting in joyful dances around each worshipper, then flowing out through nooks in the brick wall and crannies in the wooden ceiling to frolic among the clouds in cold star light and then go soaring up to their maker.
A longing, a begging, a wish to be filled. Joined together in joyful communion. Different in every possible way yet connected by the Holy Spirit that weaves together the body of Christ and stitches our souls, heals our hearts, threads our thoughts, mends our meditations.
We pour ourselves out as offerings, transparent and breakable, bathed in humility and the tears that cascade down our faces. We are one with Christ, we are one with each other.
This is His body, broken for you.
This is His blood, spilt for you.
And in that moment, we cry for faithfulness, forgiveness, fortitude.
Father, hear our prayer. Do not forsake us in our time of need.
This is our cry. This is our plea. This is our holy communion.
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