Finding An Epiphany … With Icing

An “epiphany” is a revealing moment that changes our perception. I have always loved the Feast of the Epiphany.  When I think of the visitors kneeling before the Christ child with their gifts, I recall my own personal epiphanies – those times in my life when I was compelled to bow before a new revelation.  Oddly, one such moment occurred when I was asked to take communion to a young couple with a newborn son.

Several years ago, when my pastor was busy juggling parish projects, he asked me to take over his hospital visits for the day. It would be my first time visiting the hospitals as a parish employee. My primary role would be Eucharistic minister, Father explained. Before I left, he carefully placed several consecrated Hosts in a small pyx and gave me some brief instructions.

My first visit was to the women’s hospital to see a young couple and their newborn son.  I arrived in the room expecting to greet beaming new parents.  Instead, I encountered an obviously frustrated young man chasing a wailing toddler around the room.  In the bed lay a weary teenager holding a sleeping newborn.  Both parents seemed surprised by my appearance.  I introduced myself, offered congratulations and was about to offer communion when a social worker appeared in the doorway to go over some paperwork with the couple.  

“Could you possibly hold her for a minute?” the young man asked as he deposited the screaming toddler into my arms.  

I paced the corridors with the toddler during the social worker’s visit and then returned to the room determined to give communion and move on to my other visits.

Upon my return, however, I found that a decorated cake had appeared on the bedside table along with paper plates, napkins and forks.

“IT’S A BOY!” the cake proclaimed.

“I got this cake to celebrate with our visitors, but then nobody came,” said the new dad.

“My family’s real mad at me,” said the new mom.  “They say he’s the last thing I need.”

I wasn’t sure if “he” referred to the baby in her arms or his father.

“I’m going to see a guy about a job this afternoon,” the young man offered quietly, “and we’re going to be ok.”

The girl brushed a lock of wilted hair out of her eyes and sighed.

“Do you want some cake?” she asked me.

The baby in her arms whimpered, as if seconding the invitation and his mother smiled down at him.

“You can hold him if you want,” she offered.

And so, well over a half hour into my first visit as a Eucharistic minister, I found myself sitting in a chair with a pristine newborn boy tucked in one arm, eating cake with the other.

That moment was an epiphany for me in many ways. It was the first time I had ever been to a celebration where joy and despair were guests at the same table.  I was astounded to realize that they didn’t cancel each other out.  The joy of welcoming a new life was in no way eclipsed by the knowledge that the new life was beginning on shaky ground, already threatened by the shadow of hardship, as surely as the life of the Christ child was threatened by Herod’s soldiers.  In spite of the less than perfect conditions, I felt like an honored guest at that table, a witness to a very fleeting, fragile and precious moment in time.

That moment also enlightened me with a new perspective on what it means to be a Eucharistic minister.  I realized that communion was not something I could “give” to people.  If giving was all that was required, we would be able to send the Eucharist by UPS.  But the Eucharist requires a minister.  It requires another person to be present to share in the life of the recipient, if only for a brief moment.  Jesus Himself would acknowledge this many years later.

“Wherever two or more of you are gathered in my name, there am I,” He would say.

What a powerful testament this is to the gift of our presence in another person’s life.   

Muensterman is a member of Resurrection Parish in Evansville.