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FICTION

Bread of Heaven

For the first time in three years, Mar’s loafers clicked up the stone steps of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church alone.

The wrought-iron door thundered shut as she stepped into the narthex and grabbed a liturgy booklet with a shaking hand. Taking a deep breath, she crept into the sanctuary and took a seat in one of the stiff wooden pews about halfway down the aisle.

Candles crackled from the altar painted Caribbean blue and decorated with gold stars. The thick, honeyed aroma of beeswax filled the room, and she fixed her gaze on the flames dancing on either side of the wooden communion table. Blinking a few times, she cleared the tears forming in her stormy gray eyes.

Inhale for four seconds. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold for four. Inhale … She clasped her hands and focused on her breath. Her wedding ring slid freely between her knuckles, and she clenched her hands tighter so it wouldn’t tumble to the floor and roll beneath one of the pews.

Two months. It had been two months since she’d come to church, and she wasn’t ready for a Sunday morning quite yet. An evening prayer service was the most she could handle—there were fewer people, it was quieter, and there was no singing.

She couldn’t sing. Not yet. Struggling through the liturgy would be challenging enough.

A black-cloaked harpist sat to the left of the altar, her instrument leaned against her shoulder, ready to play. She raised her hands to the strings and brushed her fingers through them, filling the auditorium with a silken melody.

Mar sat back in the pew, pressing her spine against the sturdy wood. Her brow softened as the music washed over her. Footsteps echoed up the aisle, and she cracked an eye to find an older woman in an oversized coat shuffling into a pew to her right. There were fewer than a dozen parishioners in the sanctuary capable of holding at least a couple hundred. Every whisper, cough, and movement echoed through the cavernous, wood-ceilinged hall and grated against her ears like an emery board. She’d come to find silence. Peace. Not to hear Ms. Fletcher rooting through her handbag for a peppermint, unwrapping the candy, and tonguing the mint in her saggy cheek.

Mar squeezed her hands a little tighter, her knuckles whitening.

Silence. She needed silence for prayer. For contemplation.

Things should have been quiet over the past two months, but it felt like everyone in her life was determined to keep her away from herself. Unexpected visits from Mom and her in-laws, evening phone calls from her college friends, and voicemails … so many goddamn voicemails … She turned off her phone one night, just for a break, but Mom showed up on her porch less than two hours later, pounding on the door with both fists and screaming her name.

They didn’t want her to be alone, but their coddling was a constant reminder that Landon was dead. That she was a widow.

A bell tolled. Mar stood along with the other parishioners dotted throughout the pews. She opened the liturgy booklet and followed along, her mouth whispering the words. Her heart begging for mercy.

They’d only been married for seven months when he passed. Soon, she’d be a widow longer than she’d been a wife.

Her stomach twisted as she lowered the kneeler and positioned herself on the padded rail. Two months ago, Landon had kneeled next to her, his muscular arm brushing against hers and sending bursts of heat down her spine.

Her heart ached from the memory. Ached from the emptiness in the pew. In her home. In her bed. She sucked a breath and squeezed her eyes shut as Father Steven read the first Scripture from his seat at the altar.

“Jesus sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums,” Father Steven declared in his clear, crisp voice. “A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.’” The final words of Scripture echoed through the sanctuary and faded to silence. Ms. Fletcher’s peppermint squelched against her cheek, standing Mar’s arm hairs on end.

Everything Mar had was ripped away the day Landon passed. Her family and friends had been dragging her along, keeping her on life support as she mourned. She didn’t have anything left to give, not emotionally anyway. Did this make her worse than the rich who contributed out of their abundance?

Her knees shook as they stood in preparation for the Eucharist. Mother Kathryn prayed with her withered face turned to the arched ceiling, asking God to ready their hearts and thanking him for Christ’s sacrifice. They shared the Lord’s Prayer together, the words rolling off Mar’s tongue from memory as they had the past twenty years.

A tear dripped down her cheek when Father Steven broke the bread. The snap of the hardtack rippled through the auditorium. The priest stretched his arms toward the congregants, welcoming them to the communion table as he began reciting the invitation—a call to those with great faith and those with misgivings. A call to everyone who desired the Lord, regardless of their good deeds or transgressions. Mar had heard it hundreds of times, but she’d never been the person with little faith, the person who had failed. He ended with a promise—anyone who desired the Lord would meet Him when they took the bread and the wine. The body and blood of Christ.

She stepped out of the pew and approached the altar, her heart hammering. The usual warmth of her husband in her shadow was absent, leaving her back cold and exposed, but she pressed forward, leaning into the words of the invitation. Believing she would meet the Lord at the communion table and experience the peace she’d been clawing for since Landon’s death.

She stepped up to Father Steven with her hands outstretched, and he placed the wafer in her palms, no larger than the copper coins the widow had put into the treasury. “The body of Christ. The bread of heaven.” He offered her a soft smile, blue eyes glistening.

“Amen.” She placed it on her tongue.

Mother Kathryn held the wine, the sleeves of her vestment draped like crisp, white wings. “The blood of Christ. The cup of salvation.”

Mar gripped the base of the silver chalice and brought it to her lips to take a sip and dissolve the bread.

She didn’t have anything to give, but she’d shown up. She set aside her grief long enough to come to church, and that had to be worth something.

She returned to her pew, mouth watering from the tartness of the grapes, but her stomach was warm. Full. Satisfied for the first time in weeks.

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Emily Babbitt is a Central Virginia author and copywriter who muses over family, spirituality, and belonging. Her work has been published in literary journals, including Jimson Weed, Calla Press, and TeenInk. When she’s not writing, Emily enjoys exploring different faith traditions and spending time with her husband and dog. Learn more about Emily and her work at EmilyBabbitt.com.

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