I get only what’s on the list. Gingerale and saltines to settle her stomach, a family sized box of cheerios and a gallon of milk so the kids can make their own breakfast if I’m tied up taking care of my mom. I toss a bunch of easy to make lunch stuff into the cart, things the kids can manage in a pinch. I grab some fruit and almond butter.
We just have to make it until dinner.
Our church fills in slots on the calendar to drop off casseroles and soups, crusty bread baked fresh in their ovens and wrapped up still warm. They drop off pizzas and salads and homemade cheesecake. The kids count out and divide the chocolate chip cookies, but the biggest ones end up in their stack. These church women go the extra little bit to make sure there’s something gluten-free for our daughter with celiac disease. Every evening they bring grace to our doorstep in crockpots and aluminum covered foil trays.
We break the bread and I make a plate for my mom; I carry it to her and this is how we heal the body.
We let the body heal us. This is grace. This is communion.