The woman serving as extraordinary minister reached into the ciborium and grabbed a host. At that moment, something white seemed to fly out. We both saw it. It flew off, falling to my left, her right. We looked at each other.
“Body of Christ,” she said.
“Amen,” I said, and I received on my tongue the host from her hand.
We looked at each other.
Then we both looked down. We looked around our feet. Nothing. We looked at each other. Then Father, serving the other line and unaware of the flying white thing, stopped and looked at me. He glared with his eyes. His eyes said, “Go!” I looked at the woman. I considered the line of people behind me.
Did I believe that wasn’t really the Body of Christ? If no, then I could walk away.
Did I believe that was really the Body of Christ? If yes, then I dare not.
I am the bread of life. — John 6:48
I grew up Catholic. I made my first communion in second grade with all the other kids. I remember singing the Our Father over and over for practice. I don’t remember whether we were told the bread we were getting was Jesus. I went to Catholic school in 7th and 8th grade and heard the word “transubstantiation” for the first time. I was intrigued by the word. It was long and hard to say. I think we practiced saying it. I don’t remember what the teacher said it meant. I went to Catholic high school, where we had occasional Masses. I remember a day my non-Catholic friend went to receive communion even though I knew she shouldn’t. She went because the upperclassman serving as extraordinary minister was someone we thought was really cute. I didn’t stop her.
I went to a non-Catholic college, but I went to the Catholic center where volunteers baked the communion bread, leavened and whole wheat. I remember so many crumbs.
It wasn’t until I was 24 on Holy Thursday that it finally sunk in. I thought in wonder, “I think that piece of bread is actually supposed to be Jesus. I think we really believe that.” That changed everything.
I started to visit the chapel. I could actually pray in front of Him. Like, in person. That became real to me. I always went to Sunday Mass, even through college, but it meant something else now. I was actually with Him. He was actually there.
The real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist was a great consolation after I married, and our newborn daughter was diagnosed as having a tumor. She had surgery and later chemotherapy. What a great gift that we were in a Catholic hospital. We often went to the chapel with our little one, toddling with an IV pole in tow. To be in the Lord’s presence and plead for our daughter during treatment was extraordinary. I know He heard us.
And then, during my little one’s hospitalization for another chemotherapy, I had an allergic reaction. When her blood counts were good, I went to see an allergist, who gave me a test. I went into anaphylaxis on the test, so great was my allergy to grass. The doctor assured me anyone this allergic to grass also had an anaphylactic reaction to wheat. I took all the wheat things out of my diet and tried it again two weeks later. He was right. I was allergic.
I cried at first for cupcakes and donuts, but on Sunday I realized I was also allergic to Jesus. The Eucharistic Jesus in the form of wheat.
My Father gives you the true bread from heaven — John 6:32
This was where I really found out Jesus is in that bread. I went to the chapel and cried every day. I could not receive a low-gluten host because it still contained wheat. I could sometimes receive the Precious Blood if I was first, so wheat did not contaminate the cup. If I had to sit in the back of the church for Mass, I did not receive. Most daily Masses did not offer the Precious Blood. You don’t know how much you want something until you can’t have it.
The Eucharistic Jesus, whom I could not receive, waited for me day after day in the chapel. Before the tabernacle, I contemplated why Someone so powerful would choose the form of food, why He would choose only to move when the priest or extraordinary minister moved Him, why He would choose to be bread and not popcorn or a potato chip, why He chose to be locked in the tabernacle. Jesus, meek and humble of heart.
I dove into biblical accounts of bread and wheat, farming and feasts. Jesus, our perfect nourishment to give us strength for the journey (1 Kings 19:7). Jesus, the kernel of wheat who dies and bears abundant fruit (John 12:24). Jesus, the bread from Heaven (John 6:58). Jesus, who exults and perfects the bread, which after the Fall of humankind, God said we would eat only by the sweat of our brow (Genesis 3:19). Jesus, whose Heaven is our banquet, a wedding feast (Revelation 19:9).
I have to admit, I was jealous of others who could receive Him. Did they know what they were getting? They were taking Him home and to work, and I couldn’t. They could treasure Him and talk to Him all day long, and I couldn’t. The Eucharistic Jesus became what I desired most.
By Summer 2013, it was five years since I found out I had an anaphylactic reaction to wheat. During a daily Mass, I begged Him to let me receive again. I heard Him say in my heart, “Come.”
I was scared. Would I need my epi pen if I heard wrong? I was alone with my daughters, one six-years old (declared cancer-free at age 4) and the other an infant. Would the girls be okay if something happened to me? I decided I had heard correctly, and that I would believe Him. I got in line with my girls, and received my Eucharistic Lord. I returned to the narthex (where loud or crying babies sometimes have to go), and I cried. The Lord gave me a miracle. I had no allergic reaction to Him. Not then, and not ever again.
I am the living bread that came down from heaven — John 6:51
I cherished the opportunity to receive the Eucharist after so many years of not being able. I tried to attend Mass as often as I could. During one Saturday Mass, the Lord tested me.
The woman serving as extraordinary minister reached into the ciborium and grabbed a host. At that moment, something white seemed to fly out. We both saw it. It flew off, falling to my left, her right. We looked at each other.
“Body of Christ,” she said.
“Amen,” I said. And I received on my tongue the host from her hand.
We looked at each other.
Then we both looked down. We looked around our feet. Nothing. We looked at each other. Then Father, serving the other line and unaware of the flying white thing, stopped and looked at me. He glared with his eyes. His eyes said, “Go!” I looked at the woman. I considered the line of people behind me.
The Lord knows me to be a chicken. I hate making waves. He knows that. “Maybe I can come back and look for Him after Mass,” I thought. The woman’s face said, “I’m not sure, but I think we did what we could.”
It seemed like an eternity. I stood there in my chapel veil and my winter boots, and I imagined walking away. The idea of me stepping on the host was so vivid, I saw Him bleed.
So, despite the look of the priest that impatiently and emphatically told me to move on, and despite the look on the woman’s face that said, “I guess we should move on,” and despite the feeling I had that everyone behind me wanted to know why I wasn’t moving on, I could not move on. The Lord knows me to be a chicken. But He also confronted me with a reality I could not ignore.
I got down on all fours. “Jesus,” I said interiorly, “where are You?”
I crawled and felt around with my hands. About a couple of feet away, I found Him: Jesus in the form of a sliver of bread, less than a quarter of a host. My Lord and my God.
I stood. I handed my Lord to the minister. I returned to my pew.
Did I believe that was not really the Body of Christ? If not, I could have walked away.
Did I believe that was really the Body of Christ? If yes, then I dare not.
For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink — John 6:55