It’s no secret that I’ve been writing some about my mother in the past couple of weeks, and there’s a couple of things that stick out to me. The first is an observation that my writing about Mom says more about me, than it does about her. And I miss my mother as a functional thing, more than as a person. If I’m being honest, I don’t remember her so much as I remember stories about her. And to be even more blunt, I have absolutely no idea who I would be if she hadn’t died. Her illness and it’s effects on my family life were a major contributor to who I’ve become. I’m not angry or sad at this point, I’m more curious and trying to put together pieces.
But the other concept that keeps coming back to me ties in with my developing thoughts on Communion in church. Strange, I know. And I can’t remember if I’ve blogged on this before, or if I’ve just stewed so much on it that I think that I have. I so associate popcorn with my mother, that I can’t eat it without thinking of her. And I love popcorn; I eat it at least once a week. And for 30 seconds or so, my mother is with me as I take my first handful, or as I hear the kernels popping. She’s brought into the present moment.
(And I can’t eat vanilla yogurt with frozen blueberries without thinking of a friend who’s moved away. Without fail, 3-4 times a week, I think of her as a result.)
That’s how I think communion should be.