From Confusion to Communion

Word Among Us, Jun 2004 by Avallone, Lauralyn

My story of healing and restoration through the Eucharist

The fragile dress hung delicately on a hanger in my closet for months. It was my mother's Communion dress, passed down to me. As she gently laid it out on my bed that morning, she whispered, "This is a very special dress for a very special day." That day was my first Communion.

Dressed in white, waltzing down the aisle next to a boy fitted nicely in a dark blue suit, friends and family looking on, I felt like a miniature bride. But instead of being welcomed into the adult sanctity of marriage, I was a little girl being embraced by the warm arms of the Church.

Ever since that day, church represented a safe haven for me. Sunday Mass was the only time that my mother, father, and I were together in one place for a solid hour. It was the only time that my parents weren't fighting and would actually shake hands, saying, "Peace be with you." Only during that guaranteed block of time could things like adultery, alcoholism, abuse, and financial problems recede and make way for meditation. It was a great relief.

"Welcome Back, Kid!" After the family split apart in a nasty divorce, going to church was a thing of the past. I became a pawn between two bitter exes and felt angry, confused, and hopeless. Self-pitying thoughts assailed me: "What kind of a God would allow me to ieel so much pain? Why am I being punished when I've always been such a 'good kid'? How can I believe that God exists? If he did, he'd help me."

I was a troubled teen. Not the kind who does drugs or gets really bad grades or gets into fights-the kind who has troubling thoughts about whether life has any meaning. I decided to revisit the place where I had always felt safe and clear-headed: church. I felt an overwhelming need to speak with a priest. Maybe I was hoping this would help save my floundering faith and answer my challenging questions.

Unfortunately, the priest I met with was far from sympathetic. He made it clear that my soul was damaged goods and that my weakening beliefs were disturbing and unworthy of his time. I walked away feeling very misunderstood, ashamed, and even more confused. "This is just further proof that there is no God," a part of me insisted. Another part longed for the guidance to get back on track again.

From then on, I slid through the church door only when there was no Mass. The comforting silence, the flickering candles, the faint smell of incense, the nonjudgmental eyes of porcelain saints, the ornate altar-the setting offered a glimmer of hope. My footsteps echoed loudly down the aisle, but no one came down from the heavens to throw thunderbolts at me as I sat in prayer. No one in church came up to tap me on the shoulder and say, "You can't stay here." In fact, my presence seemed to go completely unnoticed-except by the all-knowing eyes on the cross.

Sitting there, I found peace of mind, the first step on the road back to spiritual health.

Eventually, sitting in a quiet, empty church alone led to deeper healing and attending Mass with others. One Easter, when I was asked to help carry the Communion hosts up to the altar, I was sure it was God's way of saying, "Welcome back, kid!"

"The Body of Christ." Then another challenge arose to threaten my peace. This time, it was an incurable condition called Crohn's disease. The signs had been there for some time. But since my medical care was inconsistent (I couldn't afford health insurance), my physical condition deteriorated to the point where I weighed only a hundred pounds and could not walk. Doctors said my body had reached a toxic state and that my vital organs were severely inflamed and failing.

Lying on the hospital bed, given days to live, I asked God, "Why is this happening?" The old confusion was assailing me when a priest walked into my hospital room. He stood over me, prayed, and gave me Communion. Suddenly, my whole body felt as if warm water was flowing through it. I no longer felt scared or alone. I experienced a sense of companionship and comfort that I can only attribute to the presence of Jesus. He was carrying my burdens, and I felt lighter.

To everyone's astonishment, I was released from the hospital a week later-without ever needing the blood transfusion I had been scheduled for. It was months, though, before I recovered fully from this bout with my illness.

During those quiet days, I had time to reflect on the act of receiving Communion. Time-traveling back to that special occasion when I wore my mother's fragile dress, I remembered the half-dollar-sized wafer placed in my tiny hands, the voice that said, "The Body of Christ." I remembered how, as the wafer dissolved in my mouth, I had felt myself "officially" a member of the Church. Some time after that, receiving the Eucharist had become routine for me; it was just the part of the Mass that all the sermons and singing led up to.

Reflections at Communion Time. Today, though, the Eucharist is far from routine for me. I now see this sacrament as having many layers that I am just beginning to understand. Here are a few of the things I meditate on at Mass.