S T O N E S for B R E A D
church on the outskirts of town called, one of three churches collecting my leftover bread. He asked if I’d be interested in hosting the fellowship meal, and his question captured my undernourished spirit, famished for connection in ways the rest of me hadn’t realized. Or ignored. Yes, it said, but my flesh wanted no part of it. Sunday was my only day off, and I told him so. “We’ll make it easy for you,” Ryan said. “We’ll open, close, clean, and provide the food. You don’t even need to be there. We’d just like to use your space.” “Who said no already?” “I haven’t asked anyone else.” “Fine, but you can’t use the kitchen.” “Not even the sinks?” I sighed. “Only the sinks.” Ryan calls these Sundays Sanctus dies Solis—sacred Sunday. Bread is passed and broken. Simple foods are served. There’s a blessing and a five-minute message, but mostly people talk to one another, sharing life in groups of three and four around the tables. And in a year it has grown from a dozen members of his own congregation to sixty people each week. Some come from area churches, some make the trip from an hour away or more. Some are tourists leisurely strolling the sidewalks of Billingston who walk into Wild Rise expecting to order lunch and instead find the hospitality of strangers. Some are people of the community—curious, seeking, occasionally antagonistic—all handled with grace, their questions welcome. And some come only for the free meal. I’m there too. I tell myself it’s because it’s the bakehouse, and no one but Xavier and I are allowed in there alone. Half-truths are easy, but they’re always only half. Eventually the other side bobs to the surface and demands attention. The room fills quickly. I nod to Ryan as he shakes hands and 27
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8/14/13 3:09 PM