Spiritual Birthmark

A moment carved into my memory is a lesson I learned in parenting, long before application of the term could be conceived of in my life. I cannot pinpoint my age, the season of the year, or the order in which we were seated. I can, however, pluck the image of my father’s hands from my memory. In my mind’s eye I see the communion plate being passed down the pew from left to right. As it passed in front of me I watched the tiny pieces of bread teetering on top of one another. Small crumbs gathered below the pile, white pieces left behind. I knew not to remove a piece for myself, as I had already asked why I couldn’t partake. I don’t remember my father’s exact words but I know now that it was because I was not yet an adult member, had not yet been baptized into the church. (At the time the reason seemed unfair and worthy of debate, but I refrained.)

As the tiny pieces of bread moved on, my eyes followed. When the usher had moved on to the pew behind us, I looked down at my hands, then at my father’s hands, his fingers pinching the white morsel. As the minister began his words of institution, something happened. I watched my father tear the tiny piece into two. He placed one in his mouth and placed the other in my hand. I remember looking down at this small, torn bread and three white crumbs in my palm. As I moved my hand toward my mouth, my eyes filled with tears. I never looked up, a word was not spoken.

Later in the service, after the lump in my throat had subsided, I looked up at my father’s face. He turned to me, gave a smile, and then turned back to the hymnal we were sharing.

To this day we’ve never discussed this moment. In fact, I’m positive what became a lasting image in my mind was but a momentary thought for him. It was the first time I can remember the recognition of a spiritual birthmark, an instance never to be forgotten. On a whim, an impulse, my father shared the body of Christ with me and taught me what being a parent means.

~Mrs. Bethune