The Eucharist has followed me through life like my own shadow. It is the string on which the pearls of my life’s experiences, burnished white and dirty gray, have been strung. I still feel out of true. Is there any other way for us to be in the world? Yet when I kneel with palms upturned to receive the bread and then drink deep from the chalice, I feel the crooked made straight, the uneven made smooth, and the torn, patched. “Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue,” wrote Eugene O’Neill. This is my glue.
