It was time for Eucharist. And as we sang, “Hosanna in the highest” in preparation, dozens of children scrambled into the sanctuary to find their parents. We knelt and prayed; it was surprisingly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop while the priest broke the Bread. The remaining moments were filled with a melodic rendition of “The Lord’s Prayer.”
But then, just as the first row of congregants was silently directed toward the front to receive the elements, a simple cry echoed against the tall ceiling.
Daddy, the little girl called out.
The reverberation interrupted my awkward and distracted prayers for mercy, for forgiveness, for grace. The solitary exclamation reminded me of my own lone plea.
And I followed the little girl’s lead. Daddy was all I prayed, a cry bouncing off the high walls of my heart. A child, eager to be in His embrace. A daughter, desperate for His grace. And skipping up to the table He’s prepared for me.