Communal Cookies

Since coming home, I have had very few opportunities to lead worship. The last time I presided over Holy Communion was during my final chapel service in Afghanistan. While I have taken communion sporadically over these months, I have missed pronouncing an invitation to God’s table or placing an almost stale wafer into the palm of one who has come to be fed. After celebrating communion for an entire year, without it, I have felt a strange emptiness. I miss preaching, too, though I hate to admit it out loud. But, communion was always more meaningful to me, even than my best sermons. It had a way of dissolving our ranks, pushing aside our job performance reports, and removing all the other ways that the military scrutinizes its personnel for disciplinary purposes. For those moments, around the table, we were just ordinary people. We may claim to be family in Christ, but those were the moments when we realized it, sharing the same bread and wine, grateful to be fed another week.

Now that my worship responsibilities are infrequent and rarely, if ever, include communion, I find myself struggling with the ministry opportunities available during a typical day on the job. There are occasional moments of prayer. I do talk about God and faith. We have plenty of Bibles in our offices. But all of these things, what I imagine most of my colleagues who are pastors or priests in churches engage with throughout their days, are more peripheral foci in my daily work. Mostly, I spend my time listening to people. I hear the latest installments of drama which my soldiers and their spouses and children are living out each day. News about the ultrasound or the childcare near disaster, an update on an ongoing marital tiff, or worry about the next move or the job that still hasn’t materialized-- this is the substance of my ministry. I have a revolving door. While this doesn’t help me think or write or produce anything of great value between the hours of 9-5, I know that it shouldn’t be any other way.

The theme this Lent at the local Presbyterian church where I am involved is centered on God’s table. This week in my small group we discussed the topic of “Eating together.” We were asked to tell a story of a meal which was meaningful to us. There was no right way to answer the question. Because I have an “in” with the pastor and helped write the discussion questions, I knew that eventually we would be looking at the connection between the sacrament of Holy Communion and all the other times that we break bread together. Most of my group regaled stories of family meals, Thanksgivings dinners of years gone by. I had a few similar stories myself, but I wanted to think more broadly. As I pondered a special meal, what came to mind were the hundreds of boxes of Girl Scout Cookies that I have given out over the past 18 months, more than most Girl Scouts have ever attempted to sell over an entire scouting career. Often cookies have gotten my foot in the door. Remembering whether a soldier’s favorite cookie was the Thin Mint or the Samoa was an easy but still noticeable way to show interest and care. We all know the way to the heart is through the stomach. Maybe this is what Jesus considered when he took bread and broke it and gave it to his disciples saying, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

As a minister who has the privilege of giving the sacraments, I have deep reverence for Holy Communion. Yet, I am reminded in this particular season that it is possible to experience God’s presence every time we break bread with another person, each time a crumb or a morsel crosses our lips. Sharing a Girl Scout cookie can be a profoundly sacred act when we remember all that God has done and is still doing in our midst. As we chew and swallow, as we commune together around the table, we realize that God is giving us all that we really need to continue on our journeys of faith. With hearts open and hands turned out, we reach for the true gift of life, nourishment which sustains us far further than calories can count. 

Seasons

When I mention to people that I feel that I have been in mourning over leaving Afghanistan, mostly I get raised eye brows and looks of confusion. Missing friends and comrades is expected, but grief seems a little extreme. Yet, grief is what I have felt over these months as I have begun the process of ordering my life back in the United States. I haven’t been able to write, though this is as much a lack of discipline as it is any kind of writers block. Mostly, I haven’t wanted to face my struggle. Viewing it on the page in front of me, making space to think and write about it, would ensure that I would do just that. 

The other morning in the gym, as I was changing into my uniform, I noticed that I had grabbed a t-shirt that once belonged to one of the girls I had been friends with in the beginning of my deployment. Seeing her name etched in the tag almost brought tears to my eyes. Not because I will never see her again. I know I will. But, just because I know that we will never share community in the way we did during the Afghan season of our lives. As bad as things may have been on some days, misery made great company. Friendships were so much easier to nurture without outside distractions. Visiting was a walk down the hall, not a plane ride away. 

Very few of my soldiers have been willing to admit that they feel this loss. Yet, their actions speak much louder than words. In the last few weeks I have gotten more phone calls and facebook chats after hours. Some are worried about battle buddies drinking too much or acting depressed. Some are trying to figure out, even months later, how to reconnect with wives or boyfriends. Some are dealing with strange medical issues which have been exacerbated by stress. Some who are getting out of the Army are looking for ways to go back to Afghanistan as contractors. It is a high paying job which is more than they have been able to find here. 

Now that the novelty of home has worn off, partying and eating whatever food we want doesn’t have the same allure. Driving our own cars is great, except when we are stuck in the evening rush hour. Having personal space seems like heaven except when it’s too quiet or lonely. After a year of living on top of one another, of constant contact with a concentrated number of people day after day, being alone is unfamiliar. Though some have had to adapt quickly, mostly those who have rejoined families and the routine that children require, many are still trying to figure out how to be satisfied with less-- less stimulation, less fear and worry, less drama, less extremes, less personality highs and low. In this case, less is not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s still a bit deflating. 

In the midst of this holding pattern that I find myself in, one foot in Texas and another wondering what exactly is coming next, I continue to remind myself that grief takes time and is never predictable. This loss is more intense than any I have ever felt, but there is a part of me that knows that I mourn for more than Afghanistan. All of the goodbyes over the last few years, from leaving school to leaving South Africa and then leaving church family in Maryland, all of these losses have been compounded. There are moments when we realize that things will never be the same as they were. It’s okay to miss people and places. They are worth it. But, I also know that I don’t want to miss what is beginning now.  What has already begun. 

As I encourage my soldiers, I hear myself consoling myself. “For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven... A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4).” The signs may be barely discernible, but new season is coming.