For nearly a week, there was a crisis going on around here. Not an argument, family issue or misunderstanding, but a deep personal thing. Tuesday morning was a full one, with plenty of catch-up work to do. But by afternoon, the crisis was raising its ugly head, and the impact from the time I’d devoted to spiritual things that morning had waned. The bad thing about not having a boss for accountability is the need to be constantly self-motivating; the good thing is being free to be more flexible. And the beckoning was unmistakable. Only one word: “Come.”

I sat on the couch and read Scripture, meditated a while, and waited. “I’ve asked for answers,” I thought. It was so still, so quiet. More time passed, then a compelling thought formed. “Come to the Eucharist.”

I knew where it had originated. Many years before I had briefly attended a large church that was much more liturgical than my upbringing. A famous theologian had spoken there one night, and he talked about the seminary students who approached him for counsel. His most common response to their needs was “Run to the Eucharist.” He described the healing and renewal that had resulted over the years. It was a deeply moving sermon, and one of few that I honestly remember well. Despite that, I can count on one hand the times that I’ve initiated the Lord’s Supper as a part of personal worship. Usually it has been received in the corporate context, which these days means just once a quarter in our church.

This was an invitation, issued by the Holy Spirit. I poured some wine, took my bread and returned to the couch. Recited appropriate Scripture. Prayed and waited again. Slowly, God’s manifest Presence came and settled. The details of what took place are too intimate, too close to be shared openly. But three hours passed. Three hours. The need was met, and I was changed. That indescribable, palpable peace remains right now, two days later. How long it will last, I can’t say. The essence of the encounter is this: If you receive an invitation to his table, Run.