Anorexia in the communion line
As I stealthily slipped the body of Christ into my pocket, I prayed that no one was watching.
Century illustration by Daniel Richardson
The body of christ, broken for you. My palms were sweating and my jaw clenched as I shuffled forward, the wayfaring anorexic in a line of worshipers.
The body of Christ, broken for you. The aroma of freshly baked bread intensified as the ritual unfolded around me, teasing my starved soul and stomach while the stream of impervious parishioners partook in a common meal of salvation. I stepped up to the plate.
The carbohydrates of Christ, but not for you—the broken. These stigmatic words stabbed me like a nail in the hand that I then used to break off the most minuscule possible crumb of Christ. It’s amazing how mental illness can manipulate a message.
