Remembrance

The plates were overflowing with foods full of memories. I usually joke that the food must be good if the table gets quiet but this food was great and the table was covered in voices exclaiming just that.

My stepfather grinned over his plate as he said, “Ok, if you put that oyster dressing on the chicken pie, it tastes just like Grandma Co’s oyster pie. You have to try it!”

The chicken pie was one of a few family recipes that made their way to the buffet this Thanksgiving. I was so glad my husband got to experience a few things about the Louisiana holidays I loved that I had only been able share through stories until now! One of my first experiences meeting my bonus family as a teenager was visiting Grandma Co’s house for Thanksgiving. It was a unique experience, playing in the yard with sugar cane stretching for acres around the old house full of laughter and food.

I looked back up from my plate to see my stepfather, who had disappeared while I traveled down memory lane, return to the table with a plate full of chicken pie topped with oyster dressing. He continued to explain how Co would mark the oyster pie differently from the others so his father would know which pie was which. The stories of their witty quips and annual commentary over the holiday meals seasoned this full plate of food.

My husband and I picked up forks to see what this story tasted like. I had only known Grandma Co a short time compared to the people raised by her that lined this table. My husband had never met her. But, in tasting that dressing-covered pie, we knew her a bit better.

I could almost hear Mr. Bryan (my step-grandfather known as Pee-Paw to the folks alongside me) making remarks to Co about her cooking. Resurfacing in my mind was the image of worn hands over the dishes in the kitchen sink after the meal while children were swinging in the yard on the other side of that kitchen window.

The joy on my stepfather’s face reminded me of my own compulsion to share the servings of turkey dressing that my grandmother, Betty, made for me when she visited me in Ireland. I saved a piece to give to an Irish friend and delighted to regale my friend with how wonderful a cook my Grandmama is. How thoughtful she is to make extra helpings for us to take home and save!

And I thought of something Jesus said to his disciples over a sentinel meal:

“And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.’”

Luke 22:19-20

Suddenly, this communal holiday meal felt like the definition of remembrance.

None of us sat down to eat the food simply to nourish our bodies or because it was what was expected of us on Thanksgiving Day. These aunts and uncles did not carefully craft dishes handed down to them so that they would satisfy their hunger around lunchtime. This was certainly for those purposes but it was meant for more. This was remembrance.

Two generations and multiple cultures removed from Grandma Co, I felt a sense of knowing her better because of the way her grandson spoke of her as he offered me a forkful of history. I now had an actual taste to match this imparted memory.

Jesus was asking the same, in a sense, of his disciples. He knew he would not be with them in this way for much longer. The time was coming where He would be absent in body but present in Spirit. Jesus even explained why that time would be better! He said that the Spirit would come and be for them what He was not meant to be in that very hour He was speaking (John 16:7).

So, He offered them communion. His body had not yet been broken and His blood had not yet been poured out. Yet, He taught them to put an action, a taste and see moment, into their active remembering of who He was. This command carries much purpose.

I wonder if the disciples remembered this first communion as they recalled His flesh torn by lashings and His blood poured from His wounded side on their behalf. I wish I could hear their active remembrance of Him when they first shared communion after his departure from their presence. And how much did the coming of the Holy Spirit enrich their communion!

In the church I attend, we take communion every Sunday. We take of the body and of the cup. We pray not just to remember but also to know a memory imparted to us by generations of believers since the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We experience the Holy Spirit of God moving in us as we let Him call to mind moments of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection that still transform us today, thousands of years later.

Nearly every Sunday, I leave communion with a compulsion to share that good news of salvation with those who have not yet tasted and seen that the Lord is good. I want to bring the remembrance of Jesus’ life to the lost with at least as much excitement as my stepfather had sharing oyster dressing atop chicken pie.

My stories would be filled with the words He spoke accented by the moments they have rung true in my own life. With tears brimming my eyes I would say, “See what He has done! He is all He promised, taste and see!” and it would not be long before someone else would join in this communion of everyday saints following the God of All Creation.

I can say that confidently because I have known it to be true. May I never stop sharing His Truth and remembering who He is, especially over tables surrounded by hearts He created. If you want to hear, I would love to share some stories of my Savior that are at least as good as oyster dressing on chicken pie in a New Orleans garden. Come on over and have a seat at the table.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah