I studied her hands, folded in her lap as she sat in her favorite chair.

Calm. Poised. Spotted with age. Her fingers adorned with rings representing deep family ties.

Patiently waiting to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion.

We'd just enjoyed one of our visits in her home that are always a mix of joy and sadness, hope and uncertainty, and consistently infused with her vibrant, unwavering faith.

Despite the tumors in her chest and lesions on her brain, Ms Debra remains unmoved in her convictions of faith, her trust that God has not and will not abandon her in the critical condition of her health, and that she is "in God's hands."

We prayed together, asking that the Holy Spirit be poured out "on these gifts of bread and cup" and that the Holy Spirit be poured out on my parishioner...my friend... that she would have what she needed for the remainder of that day: comfort, strength, rest, peace.

After receiving the sacrament, she told me she felt lighter, that she was already feeling the beginnings of the things for which we had prayed. I felt them, too, not being with it enough to realize I was in need of them in the first place.

Debra's affirmations of the sustenance she received was the second sign for me that day that Holy Communion really does bring us together and helps us to encounter the Spirit of God that is alive and well, loving us with full force, giving us what we need for each moment, and giving us what we need to love one another as God intends.

Earlier that morning I was at a gathering of ministers where I was asked to help serve Communion to those gathered. Though honored, I groaned internally knowing that there was someone in that room toward whom I was harboring disdain and frustration.

"How can I offer this person communion when I am still so annoyed, frustrated, and baffled by them?" I asked myself as the liturgy began.

When it was time to go forward, I was still feeling uneasy about the hypocrisy in which I was about to participate. "You can't serve someone Communion if you've got beef with them--beef that they don't even know or care about, mind you!" spat the inner critic within my mind.

Then the darndest thing happened.

The person walked up. I looked them in the eye, called them by name, and told them "the body of Christ, given for you." In that moment (believe it or not), I felt my disdain for this human melt away and in its place was shoved the recognition that they, too, are made in God's image and that they, too, are loved by God.

And even if just for that moment, it was enough. It was enough to get over myself, it was enough to forgive, it was enough to move on, and it was enough to be reminded that each of us belongs to each other and that each of us belongs to God. All of us. Not one single human excluded.

Holy Communion does something that almost nothing else in this world can do: It brings all of us to a common table to share a common meal to be reminded of a not-so-common love that was given to us and that continues to be spread far and wide for all of creation in every moment.

It causes us to love when that's the last thing feel like doing because it reminds us that we have been loved at our most unlovable. It gives us hope when that's the last thing the world can possibly offer us because we are reminded that our hope is beyond this world.

So, thanks be for Holy Communion. As annoying as it can be for our hearts to be softened against our will and for us to receive the reality checks we need most, it is absolutely essential for journeying our life and faith together.