Out of the mouth of babes...

I recall a time when my now twenty-one year old daughter was about five. We were sitting quietly listening to a solemn homily delivered at a Sunday morning mass. She was a precocious little thing, but knew she had to be quiet and still; and for that I was grateful. We weren’t frequent church goers, then. Anyone with young kids knows it’s a task and a half to keep them from wiggling and squirming for the hour and a half long service. Every now and then, she’d shift a little and look me in the eye; a sign I had learned to interpret as “When is this going to be over?” I pressed her little hand in reassurance, silently praying the old priest would hurry it up a little. 

Then the Homily was over (thank God), but it was time for the Eucharistic prayer. The priest, in simulation of the Last Supper, held up the communion and the wine amid the silent, prayerful congregants and intoned:

“…He took the bread/wine and gave it thanks and praise, gave it to His disciples and said; “Take this, all of you and eat it/drink it. This is my body/blood, which will be given up for you.”

My little daughter looked at me in horror and squeaked loudly:

“We’re going to eat the body? And drink the blood?”

The whole pew burst out laughing.