Communion

Do you know what it’s like to look into a bowl of sorbet, garnished with a raspberry and a mint leaf, and know it’s likely the last raspberry you’ll have for a year?

I do. This was me last night, at dinner. My prediction isn’t turning out to be strictly true; I asked for more raspberries this weekend, and I’ll get them. (I could eat a box in two grabs, if I’m not mindful.) But as soon as my white count goes down again—and it will—I can’t have another. Or a fresh salad. Or any raw, unpeeled fruit or vegetable.

I can’t describe the taste of a raspberry; you’ll have to go and eat one. They’re a summer treat, anyway. Friends in my hometown have a raspberry patch. I used to pick them whenever I wanted, but only in July. I never grieved them when they were gone; blackberries came on their heels. Where I came from, those grew everywhere, in every ditch and abandoned patch of yard.

I worked (volunteer and paid) at the food co-op in Olympia, WA, for nine years. Once, and only once, we had organic peaches from France. I think the staff got tired of all of us teasing. Other than bananas, it’s a local-food operation. You eat what’s available. I didn’t shop anywhere else, because I always had a working-member discount. If I wanted berries on my granola in the winter, I shook them out of a frozen bag.

I live in California now. There’s no such thing as seasonal food. Everything’s available, all the time. I think I’ve bought fresh raspberries in November, to make cranberry-raspberry sauce for Thanksgiving.* It would never occur to me to buy some just to eat them, in winter—they’re too expensive.

Summer fruit belongs to summer. I can still have a peach, if it’s peeled. But knowing that my body and my doctors won’t allow me to eat whatever I want out of a garden, raspberries and fresh greens and tree fruits are all I want. Forced asceticism changed my desires, fast.

And I’m not remotely a “foodie.” I like to eat well, but I don’t cook, ever, and I’ve barely ever bought groceries since I moved into the seminary dorm. I’m happy when I chance into a handful of raspberries, or fresh pesto, or portobellos—but it’s not an experience I ever make happen for myself.

I think this line of thought has to do with coming back into my body, temporary though I know that is. I’ve been feeling better every day, and stronger. I’m noticing sensory things.

At the Ranch last Saturday, we had Eucharist in the pavilion. Both bishops were here, as were more than 200 others. The wine was local; the bread baked literally in the next building over, the refectory kitchen. It wasn’t random pita bread, and it certainly wasn’t “fish food;” it was simple, well-practiced, and exquisitely good.

My liturgics teacher told us a story, last fall, about being in Africa. I don’t remember the country; I’m sure he told us. They don’t have wine there. The water’s dicey. So they used Coke for communion. Not because they could get it from any random vending machine, but because they couldn’t. It was special to them.

The elements stood out for me last Saturday not because they were rare. Local wine flows like water here; I can look across the valley and see grape vines on both sides of the Russian River. The kitchen staff bakes bread all the time. They were special to me because I don’t eat this way often. And because I know I’m healing. Also, God was present in the extended Ranch family: some had worked here; many had retreated here, the kids had come to camp here. This place has given to all of us. Many of us knew each other. I’d met lots of people, living here for a summer and hosting odd retreats through the year. There were people I didn’t know, too. We came together, in community.

I’m thinking of becoming a third-order Franciscan. I’m sorting through reasons why I would and wouldn’t do it, and seeing what makes sense to me now. The things that hold me back are mostly financial details, small things that can probably be worked out. I like the idea of a structured rule, and a global community. I love the whole idea of giving yourself completely to serve the world. Loving without question. “My God, my All.”

We’re supposed to be Christ for each other; that’s part of every Christian’s call. I am of the subset, Episcopalian. Every time I say the Baptismal Covenant (Book of Common Prayer, 304-5) I reaffirm my promise to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving my neighbor as myself.”

That’s huge. Intimidating, really. I go weeks without thinking about it; I forget to do it, daily, in the world. But I’ve been thinking about fresh fruit, and bread, and how a friend’s particular embrace healed me.

I get tons of touch, in my daily life. Less so now because I’m around less people; but in general, people can hardly walk by me without touching me. It’s a cancer thing; I think that my living that out in community made life more real for many people. I get a lot of hugs, and I get a lot of love. S. was different because he crossed a room to do it, and because he took time. I think he saw that I was, in that moment while B. sang about resurrection, moving from victim to survivor. He supported me through that motion.

I don’t know how to be Christ for others. I think that’s a lofty aspiration. I do know how to honor the God within another person, if I remember to do it. And I know that if I take the time to look, not just at someone but into them, with respect and love for all that is holy and broken, I can give gifts that are as common as bread—and as rare as raspberries.

The trick, is looking where I don’t want to.

*Easy recipe: 1 pkg cranberries; equal raspberries; water to cook in, and sugar to taste.