My Communion

I come to the table carrying ache,

Not dressed up, not polished, not pretending.

Just me and the weight of remembering

What it cost You to call me Yours.

The bread feels heavier than it should,

Because I know what it represents.

A body willingly broken,

So mine wouldn’t have to stay that way.

You knew the night.

You knew the kiss, the trial, the cross.

And still You gave thanks,

Still You broke Yourself open for me.

I remember Your words—

Not loud, not rehearsed.

This is My body, given for you.

And somehow, that includes me.

Then the cup.

Not just suffering, but covenant.

Not just blood, but promise—

Poured out so I could finally breathe.

I don’t drink it in sorrow alone.

I drink it in wonder.

Because the same blood I remember here

Is the blood that crushed the enemy’s voice.

It silenced hell.

It emptied the grave.

It stood toe to toe with death

And told it, you don’t get the last word.

This table doesn’t belong to defeat—

It belongs to resurrection.

To a Savior who rose, scars and all,

And called His children back to life.

So when I take the bread,

I take healing.

When I take the cup,

I take freedom and peace.

I remember a cross, yes—

But I also remember a stone rolled away.

I remember a Savior who didn’t stay buried

And a victory that didn’t stay quiet.

Until the day You come again,

I will keep coming back to this place—

Where remembrance meets power,

And grace meets me every time.