The Church...continued

I am sitting outside the church with a baby in my arms. Her face is round, her eyes are closed now. She had been crying, I had been awkwardly trying to shift her and bounce her around like I’d seen mothers do, I think that was supposed to make them stop crying. But finally she cried herself out and now she lies in my arms, too tired and scared to be awake any longer.

And I pray with all my heart that somehow she is protected, that somehow that tiny round head won’t feel any more blows or shaking or fear, and won’t hear all the lies. That she will be safe enough to grow up and know truth. The power of innocence, moving us all to tears and utter desperation and deprivation. The power of innocence, breathing hiccupy breaths in her sleep, too small to struggle against my arms. And I love her with all my heart. I can’t help it, something this small is only made for love.

And this is the body of Christ. I, without even thinking about it, want to take this baby in my own arms so that her mother can take communion. Afterwards I think it’s because Gigi needs it and that’s what Christ would do right? look out for the spiritual well-being of his sister before his own. But at the time it wasn’t a thought, it wasn’t a need, it wasn’t my conscience, it was my arms thrusting out and grabbing this innocence. This innocence named Myrna that came from my sister, that is my sister. And this innocence was calm and beautiful, and then this innocence cried her little heart out in spasming sobs and my heart couldn’t help but spasm along with her.

And I try to cover her face, as I walk around the empty courtyard with small steps and small shifts of her position in my arms, as we make revolutions through darkness and garish orange and then soft white light. And as I step into another shadow, she can’t cry anymore. Her limp relaxing as her eyelids droop closed feels like a defeat, not a victory, and yet I rejoice that she can sleep in my arms, and that although she is scared, I couldn’t hurt her like her monster of a father, and that God cares for the oppressed and the fatherless. And this is my sister’s child, and my child also, there is no difference. For one of the few times in my life I can see the church, with this Egyptian baby, and it all seems clear, strangely because I am not taking communion.

Now silence. Then Gigi and Sara and Rebecca burst out of the church doors in the midst of the communion hymn, Gigi shuttles me in. Now I am kneeling before the altar with the body and blood of Christ dripping from my hands. Now I am sitting in the pew, in soft yellow light. Rebecca turns to me and says, “Gigi said she wants the numbers for the womens’ shelters.” Just like that. And one heart breaking smile grows across our faces.