Twelve Ways of Taking the Sacrament

1.
Bless and sanctify this bread 
to the souls of all those who partake 
and especially those few who instead 
stare down and with one shake
of a chin-resting-in-the-palm head 
send the tray past them, or take 
the handle and lean across the spread 
of bench to the old couple half-awake, 
the woman who looks up startled, eyes red,
unfolds herself, and smiles all our heartache.   


2.
The priest for the water prayer kneels,
gray-blond ponytail-tight scalp
hovering just above the tray-cloth. 
Baptized last month, still new
to everything, he clears his raspy throat 
for courage. Years of drinking, drunk 
more often than not, face more texture 
than complexion, crumpled newspaper section
of local tragedies that no clean living 
or priesthood blessings will smooth out
in this lifetime, and with a voice 
that won’t fully scab over, asks God 
to bless and sanctify this water. 

This water, he repeats, swallowing audibly, 
stumbling through that winding sentence 
of blunt words, nerves and joy shaken 
and stirred. When the trays return 
he reaches down, lifts up, and stops. 
Not the first time he’s measured 
his worth in the bottom of a cup.  

Then, face unscrunching into something
like a grin, he raises his hand as if to toast 
the One who bought this round for everybody, 
each round for all eternity, whose grace 
is an open tab—and quick as forgiveness 
knocks back that holy thimble like a shotglass. 


3.
I know I should have my eyes closed, but it’s hard not to watch Sister Taylor bless the sacrament each Sunday. When the priest kneels down she stands up on the other side of the chapel, in front of the first row where her husband, their kids James and Jasmine, and Rodrigo and Lupita, the other deaf people in the ward, all sit. She stays right on pace with the priest, her mouth and eyebrows moving almost as much as her hands. I’m beginning to understand some sign language just by watching her. Maybe I’ll take it in high school. That means Father, that means souls, and sometimes she dabs her eyes, a quick tap in each corner with one finger of the same hand. Maybe she’s crying, but it could be part of the sign for Jesus. Of her sign for Jesus. 


4.
Joseph was right about the sacramental wine:
beware of any faith you haven’t made yourself. 
Here are grapes and bottles. Here is time. 
Here is sabbath after sabbath for your cellar shelf. 


5.
I ease the cup out, 
drink, discard, and witness 
a water-bubble domed 
over its tray-hole.  
Buoyant shiny O 
of supplication,
invocation
mourning  
invitation 
rejoicing: the O 
in the center 
of hope. 


6.
The new priest repeats:
“That they may eat it in—” 
no there’s no it I know
it seems like there should be 
and what difference does it make
if eating the bread specifically 
or just the act of eating 
is done in remembrance or is
the lack of it just to keep 
us careful when we read it, 
and he says it again, eat it
in remembrance and on 
the third time I hear it:

the body of Thy Son 
the body of Thy Son
the body of Thy Son


7.
Can you imagine: 
Come to my arms, ye blessed. 
Right now, dust filaments 
twirling slowly, twinkling 
in early sunlight through tall 
glowing curtains, embracing
their weightlessness, drifting 
everywhere but down:
yes I can. 


8.
Bread tray glinting with reverent
fluorescence, the deacon offers Christ’s body 
to the body of Christ, row by row, 
one by one, then heads out to the foyer, 
gathering in: 

teens on phones, parents with toddlers,
the man who wears no tie and prefers 
a comfy armchair to the pews. 
All have eaten and are filled.
Turning back for the chapel 
the boy glances outside. 
Brother and Sister Larson 
totter arm in arm, inch by inch 
toward the doors. 
  
By now, the boy knows, 
the other deacons are lined up 
inside, waiting. The whole ward 
is waiting for the priests, who wait 
for the deacons, who wait for him, 
who waits for the Larsons,
who have waited on the Lord 
arm in arm in health and sorrow
through two daughters lost in childhood 
and a grandson by suicide last month, 
cancer and remission twice, then three missions 
in sixty-seven married years. 

Four months from yesterday 
is Brother Larson’s funeral. 
Of course the boy doesn’t know 
this or what to do right now, 
but his instinct is to bless.  
He pushes through those doors 
into a flood of summer, sunlight 
flashing off his outstretched tray 
like Ephraim’s horn, gathering in. 


9. 
The Word made flesh 
made bread, soft white 
sandwich loaf we suction
and pry out of molar-pits 
with tongues, or in extreme 
cases, a discreet fingernail,
working with the persistence, 
the precision, the relief 
of repentance. 


10. 
Without an official component of ritual drama in our sacrament ordinance, I have adopted the weekly struggle between this little girl and her parents. Toddler-tufted in a functional pink dress, she prances and ambles down the aisle, almost losing her balance every fourth step yet still managing to elude their crouched-down-shuffle and furtive swiping for her arm. Those of us with grownup kids revel in the scene, but I understand her parents’ reaction. There’s the fear of our annoyance and judgment, and perhaps a deeper worry that their daughter is not destroying reverence but fulfilling it. She must be stopped before her joy infects our penitence, before we start wondering if all sacrament hymns have to sound funereal. Before she catches us watching her, stops twirling, and gazes back in radiant amusement as if to ask: O you who are redeemed, here to celebrate your redemption: why aren’t you dancing too?


11. 
Three pews ahead, 
pudgy hands whack 
and grip the bench back.
A wispy noggin rises, 
all wobble but the eyes.

They fix me with the gaze of God.
I grin, frown, furrow, gape,
a jack-in-the-box of expressions
and…pop! The baby’s face breaks 
into delight, eyes and mouth
wide with silent cackling.

Now I too can’t help but smile: 
pride, this flex of dad skills
or simply the thrill of connection, 
of communion. She is teetering with joy, 
would have toppled over
if not for her vigilant mom. 
And because I should be thinking 
about Jesus right now, 
I bow my head and pray 
that every once in a while
and for no good reason 
He looks back at me this way. 


12.
Christmas Day sacrament meeting:
mid-ordinance, the traditional
mewl and wail of babies 
in a whole new light,
the original 
light. 

Kevin Klein is an elementary teacher and writer from Orem, Utah. His LDS-themed poetry has appeared in Irreantum, Dialogue, and BYU Studies. He’s the author of two picture books, one about the First Vision (Oh How Lovely Was the Morning), and a symphonic, poetic farmyard story titled Showdown Symphony. His family is, among other things, one of his favorite sources of inspiration and feedback.