Communion

I want to tell you a story...

He was a preacher back then.  He still is to this day.  He is my father.  I can remember him standing behind the table with the words etched across the front: in remembrance of me.  He would say the words needed to bless symbols of stale saltines and microscopic tumblers of grace juice.  But those memories are slight, fleeting.  The memory that endures is his stance before another table, this one a polished veneer console. His voice was not required at this table, only his hands.

He would rise early of a morning before sun and sons and wife.  His ritual was to stack the albums he loved and then let the needle slowly drop.  The volume would be barely a whisper at the beginning; every five minutes or so he would stroll back by and increase the sound slightly, smoothly.  While other houses were roused by alarm clocks of bells or beeps, our home gradually simmered each morning in the juice of music: Johnny Cash, Sons of the Pioneers, the gentleman Jim Reeves, Rod McKuen, Ray Conniff, there were others. As that cheap needle drew crackled sound from warm vinyl, so were my brother and I drawn from sleep to face the day.  His morning ministrations were priestly; you cannot convince me otherwise.  I was there.  I am witness.

I had prodigal days of Cougar Mellencamp and Boston and Journey, there were others.  I stepped away from his table of remembrance.  But now, in my forties, probably the age he was in those days, I have found an AM station that plays Glen Campbell and Tom T. Hall and Andy Williams...and Cash, always Cash.  I listen each morning on my commute and think of him, of my father's body broken and blood spilled for me in ways a son will never know that I might live and grow and find wife and children of my own and sleep and dream.   It is my daily communion. I take and eat and drink and do it in remembrance of him.  He has not crossed over Jordan yet; he knows the joy of his children's children.  But I find it no sin to remember the living while the day is still called today.  And so I do.   

The crackers and grape juice of my youth were quarterly symbols; they never became the literal body and blood of our Lord.  But my father's music...

14 comments:

  1. This blessed communion of fathers and families, the beauty of bonds woven together by sound; how cool is it that the remembrance of the bonds can be ushered into the car wirelessly.

    There are few good things in life that can be freeze dried, and reconstituted, and are just as tasty as they were before... but memories, those that accompany sound and smell and work from the senses around the brain into the heart... those actually get BETTER.

    ReplyDelete
  2. "I listen each morning on my commute and think of him, of my father's body broken and blood spilled for me in ways a son will never know that I might live and grow and find wife and children of my own and sleep and dream. It is my daily communion. I take and eat and drink and do it in remembrance of him. "

    This is vintage John. And this is why I lurve The Shame. Not because of what it is, but because of who you are.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Mercy, you have a way with words.

    Thanks for sharing this.

    ReplyDelete
  4. what is it about receiving a story from someone else, John, that makes us want to go and find one of our own?

    we may ultimately forget the voices of those someones who were like needles drawing crackled sound from the warm vinyl of our living but isn't it good to have the likes of Cash and Bennett and Damone to remind us of the sound of their loving?

    this was grand. simply.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Such a beautifully painted picture...such a special place in your heart to share with us and I'm glad that you did.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Vern,

    Thanks for taking the time to comment. Grace for you as you father your family...

    John

    ReplyDelete
  7. Gretchen,

    I appreciate your words and your frequent trips to the Dirty Shame...

    Grace to you and yours,
    John

    ReplyDelete
  8. Sprocket,

    I tried to view your profile, but couldn't...Thanks for stopping by...really...

    John

    ReplyDelete
  9. Laure,

    I completely forgot Bennett...how could I do that? Thanks for the reminder!

    John

    ReplyDelete
  10. Tiffani,

    How are you and yours? I do hope you are well.

    Grace,
    John

    ReplyDelete
  11. So nice. I remember your father and I love reading your respect for him. I think it's wonderful to remember the living. I'm sure he is honoured to read your memories of him.
    Interesting how as parents we are also broken and poured out for our children. Well put.

    ReplyDelete
  12. John,

    Your writing?

    Cash.

    Always Cash.

    ReplyDelete
  13. It's amazing to me growing up in a house of country music haters that I now know and love many Cash songs. Now that I know some, I hear them everywhere!

    ReplyDelete
  14. I am loving getting to know you through your heart spills. This one more perfectly explains for me what Jesus was saying about communion when he let the breath of God out by saying "do this in rememberance". Your experience with your dad is what God is wanting us all to share with Him. It can be that real - and it takes time to get there. Thank you for bringing more clarity to this mystery.

    ReplyDelete