{ A Last Supper (DAY 525) }

Sometimes you don’t realize it’s the last super like this, right now, right here until you’re half way through it. It started like any other time before where one thing rolled into the next, casually, spontaneously, family style. A going away party that felt like the hand made quilt that we lounged on, the ones all spread out on the grass. So many different people and prints in a seemingly random conglomeration and yet beautiful. These are the types of friendships you don’t see coming.  Yet all the sudden your heart hurts really bad and you’re wiping away tears that you only just held in till you got in the car and you’re driving away not know when you’ll see them next because this is goodbye for now.

The park time rolls into a stroll through the trees and the sun’s gold gown is trailing behind her when a quick question about dinner turns into, “come eat at our place.” It’s the, “you’re REALLY good friends to see our house this messy” followed by a reassuring, “you’re moving! Stop apologizing!”

So there we are in a tiny kitchen and we’re weaving in and out. Seven of us are prepping for dinner. The screen door opens and shuts again and again as mismatched plates are spread out on the table in the narrow space between one building and the next. Tall chairs and short chairs and one that has my rear is falling through the plastic slats by the end of the night gather round this table. Cold beverages are poured into teacup shaped mugs, each one a little different and silverware is passed in a china blue and white cup. Pot roast, sliced cucumbers, grapes, strawberries, cooked vegetables, bread, and a bowl piled high with sweet, hot pink watermelon spears crowd the table. I laugh with Jonathan about the fact that we can’t cut the roast only to realize we’re using butter knives. Ansley’s laugh rings out and her green shirt reminds me of a gem, just like she is. Sherry is petite but she’s expressive and lovely and her bangs frame kind eyes. Tyler is perched on the tall chair. Mom is fully enjoying the fact she’s sipping something chilled from a teacup and delighting in the little things. We both know this dinner is going to be written about in her gift book without even saying it. Dad is making me smile with his comments. There are questions, there is silence, there are stories shared and friendships built just like that around the table. We commune on a level that leaves me in wonder. It’s so simple this breaking of bread together and yet it is much more profound than that. It’s saying yes to community and letting people in. It’s like Jesus and his friends. I know Jesus was there last night. I saw him in the faces of those dear ones around the table.

By the time the stories about wild animals have humored the group the faces of people I love so dearly are hazy in the dark. I swat the mosquitoes. How can two of these people I’ve only known a few years be family? How can we let them go? We have to because we love them and want what is best for them.

I hate goodbyes. I thank Jesus he came and broke not just the bread but his heart so that someday I won’t have to say goodbye. He knows how I’m feeling. Until then we may sit at different tables and break bread with other people but we’ll still be gathering and enjoying fellowship with others. We’ll be passing on a little bit of ourselves and hopefully a whole lot of Jesus in the hope that one day when we are gathered around the Lamb’s feast the stories will be all the richer for the last suppers had.