A Foretaste of the Divine: A Small Cup of Wine Made My Sunday Morning

During the summer of my tenth year, my first taste of communion wine acted as a foretaste of my current faith. Every summer, we went to South Carolina to visit my grandmother. We didn’t attend church regularly at home, except on special occasions, and sometimes with my cousins who are Catholic. But my grandmother, the widow of a Methodist preacher, made sure that everyone attended church every Sunday, and the revivals and vacation bible school, etc. The summers were filled with church, visiting, eating pecans and sunshine. I loved it.  

I especially looked forward to Communion Sundays. For me, Communion Sunday meant Welch’s grape juice and Matzo bread or those round white wafers, wine and unleavened bread, Body and Blood. I hate to say it, but it was like getting a snack in the middle of service. Methodist services can go rather long and by the time we took Communion, I was usually more than ready for lunch, which in retrospect was as it should have been.  

I remember, getting to church a little late as usual, my mother had to get herself, my brother, and my sister ready for church, so we often ran a little late. The ushers waited for an appropriate moment to allow us to enter. I remember sunshine pouring through the high windows as we recited the Apostles’ Creed, and singing along with the choir. Next came, what my ten-year-old mind perceived to be, a lengthy sermon, from the preacher. Finally, it was time for Communion. As with each communion Sunday, my mother covered my head with a lace doily provided by the church then secured it with a bobby pin. When the ushers arrived at the edge of the pew to signal that my row could proceed to the altar, we headed down. The strange thing is I don’t recall my mother walking with me, I remember this journey being a very solitary one.    

Unlike the Catholic Church, we served ourselves at the altar. Little plastic cups of purple juice filled a banister, which ran the length of the space in front of the altar and the pulpit, while the bread would be placed on a silver tray on a special table in front of the banister. I approached the table and picked up a wafer. Kneeling in front of the banister, I placed it lightly in my mouth. Then, I picked up my tiny cup of rich dark liquid. I noted that the color was a bit different and that it smelled wonderful; I drank it, but to my surprise, it didn’t go down like grape juice. There was a tingly burst of flavor on my tongue, and as the liquid traveled, it warmed my throat, and then the warmth of a candle flame filled my chest. I rose and left the altar smiling from ear to ear.    

I returned to the pew, my mother having arrived before me. I asked, “Can I go again? That was good!” After a moment of surprised silence, my mother replied, “Girl, no!,” a mixture of amusement and rebuke playing across her features. I sighed showing my disappointment and turned to face the front of the church with the foretaste of my adult faith still filling and warming me. Amen.