By honoring the gift of food, we honor the body of Christ.
The apple juice didn’t taste quite right. Neither did the cookies, which were the store-brand imitation of the better-tasting, more expensive version. And there was always fear that there wouldn’t be enough. There would be pushing and grabbing, big kids taking six cookies, and occasionally tears. Always small for my age, and the pastor’s daughter to boot, I didn’t have it in me to jostle and struggle against the other children for the snacks at coffee hour, at Vacation Bible School, at Sunday school. It wasn’t worth it.
“Why does the apple juice at church taste weird? Why do we have ‘creme-filled sandwich cookies’ instead of Oreos?” I asked my mom.
Maybe the budget didn’t allow for better. This was a generation ago, and “organic” was not a commonly used term. And anyway, we were just kids. Did it matter, really? The grownups got weak and bitter coffee with powdered non-dairy creamer in thick white Styrofoam cups, and those little powdery donuts that came in white and blue boxes from the grocery store shelves and mysteriously stayed fresh for weeks. Church ladies bought several boxes on sale and stored them in the church freezer, laying them out on trays to thaw before the service began.
Every Sunday, after church, we filled a giant black plastic garbage bag with trash. My dad sent me to scout out the half-empty cups and crumpled napkins strewn around the drop-ceilinged, orange-tiled room with a musty odor that we called the “fellowship hall,” and I swept up crumbs while my mom wiped down the counters. We turned out the lights, locked the door, and walked next door to the parsonage, where we lived.
I grew up, left the parsonage, and then began ...
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