There is something in the breaking of bread that feels older than memory, older than the words we speak at a ritual. It is not about ceremony, not really. It is about that moment when one hand reaches toward another, offering something warm, simple, necessary. —humble and profound. It is there, in that small act, where communion lives.
Not in a chalice or altar, but in the quiet way we say, without words: I see you. I’ll share what I have.
We break bread, and in doing so, we break open a part of ourselves. We become vulnerable, and in that vulnerability, deeply connected.
When we break bread, we are saying—come closer. There is room for you at my table, and space for your story in my heart.
And isn’t that the holiest thing?
Not the doctrine, but the doing. Not the prayer recited, but the hand extended.
Communion as the sacred act of being with. Of choosing again and again to sit beside one another, to pass the bread, to open the heart a little wider each time.
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