I press my forefinger against the cup of Communion juice. I can see my fingerprint through the plastic, through the blood.

Volumes of blood, being pumped by the minute through my body, a pulse in nine places to remind me I am alive. My daughter shows me, one night, where to find the soft patter of what feels like feet running beneath my skin, running life to each part of me while I simply stand still.

Did you know, friend, that this patter, this pulse beneath our skin, can be found in our neck, our wrist, our elbow, the tops of our feet, and even our thumbs? As if the One whose blood fills our cup doesn’t want us to forget how dependent we are on something so quiet. This organ, expanding a hundred thousand times a day beneath our rib cage.

It’s like rain on the roof, this reminder of grace, of something we have no control over. We’re all connected to life support, to these mighty beating hearts, but we run around thinking we’re cordless. We’re as dependent as we were in the womb.

I continue to press my finger against the plastic of my cup. It’s as if Jesus’s blood is sketching my fingerprint in red ink, redefining me.

Purified by Something So Quiet

The pastor says Christ gave thanks. He gave thanks before He broke and poured. He gave thanks that His life would end, that He would be betrayed and tortured and forsaken—He gave thanks for all the worst things, all the fearful things, the things that would keep us up at night.

Pastor says to imagine Christ handing the bread, the cup, to us. I picture Him saying, “This is Me—poured out for you.” I see such joy in His face. And realize again how dependent I am on something so quiet.

When He hands me the bread, the cup, it’s as though His hand has budded and burst into fruit, into wheat, into grape, and then He smiles as He’s crushed, this grain, this grape, crushed for me. He gives thanks as He’s crushed.

I think of King David after he counted the fighting men in 2 Samuel 24. It wasn’t the counting that was the sin. It was that he’d forgotten to check his pulse. He’d won so many wars that he thought maybe he was cordless, he didn’t need life support; that he was the master of his own domain. And God sent a plague to remind him (see verse 15), like the glimpse of a fingerprint through the cup of blood, to say, “You are Mine, and your very life beats because of Me. So now make an altar on a threshing floor and worship Me there. Because wheat must first be threshed.”

Our blood, it must be “threshed,” too, purified by our kidneys—two bean-shaped organs that look like tiny fists. Our blood flows through these fists, and somehow it’s cleansed, even as Christ’s blood transfuses us, purifies us.

David sank to the threshing floor and worshipped by the altar (see verse 25), the blood of the animal mixed with the chaff and the wheat.

I worship now, too. It’s a quiet thing, but I’m dependent on it. This giving thanks.

Response:

Father, too often I’m distracted by the loud, the things that try to tell me I’m cordless. Forgive me for thinking I don’t need You. Forgive me for counting my trophies. None of it matters. Only You. Receive my sacrifice of praise.

(This post is an excerpt from Emily’s newly released devotional, Commune with Me, available wherever Christian books are sold.)

Meet Emily T. Wierenga

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Begin Within is a series to inspire a year-round lifestyle of gratitude that will impact not only your own life, but the lives of your neighbors as well. Gratitude is a theme we talk about often around here because it ties so closely into other missional living rhythms. Practicing gratitude reminds to keep our hearts soft and expectant and our eyes open. Therefore, the more we embrace gratitude, the easier it becomes to truly see our neighbors and where we can join what God is already doing in our neighborhoods.

If you would like to contribute to Begin Within, you can find the submission guidelines here.