My companion at table

I try to keep worship to an hour, even on communion Sundays. I keep a side-eye on the clock and move certain things along, because I want to take plenty of time when the congregation comes forward. I look each person in the eye as I give the bread.

But that morning they seemed to barrel toward me two by two. I barely had a chance to tear the bread, much less connect. A few weeks later I would leave, and we would have a liturgy of farewell—offering each other release, and forgiveness where needed. We would not break the bread together again. It all went by so fast.

It’s the same with mothering. I’ve packed three children off to college, and in each freshman dorm room, before the farewells, I’ve made the bed. I made my daughter's this August, more colorfully arrayed than her older brothers'. It seemed like one thing I could control. I made the bed, just as we set the table for the holy meal. The deacons in my last church had a photograph of the communion table, to be sure of arranging things right. No one could remember who took the picture, or when. But it provided a reassuring sense of order.