In my fellowship, we celebrate the eucharist – we call it the Lord’s Supper or communion – every Sunday.

It’s a time at my church when someone shares some thoughts about the sacrifice of Jesus and a blessing each for the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.

This morning I confess I did not hear much of the thoughts shared by the fellow who presided at the table. That’s a shame in a way, because he always has good thoughts to share.

This morning I couldn’t help missing it.

My 12-year-old son Matthew was sitting next to me, as he always does. For some reason, his hand slipped into mine when that part of the service began. And it just stayed there, clasping mine tightly.

Not quite a man. No longer just a boy. Twelve years old. The age that boys sometimes stay behind in God’s house a while after mother and father leave.

All I could think of during this tiny shadow of a Paschal meal was how hard it would be to see others mock and spit upon my not-so-little boy. How difficult it would be not to obliterate them if they began to torture him. How impossible it would be to hold me back if they tried to kill him.

My boy isn’t perfect. He has anger issues. He torments his little sister. He’s having trouble in life sciences and failing pre-algebra.

But he’s my son. And while he does not always do or say what would please me, I am always well-pleased with him.

It won’t be long until he’ll be a teenager. He will choose the directions his life will take, and whether they include following the Jesus that I’ve told him about. He’ll be too cool to sit with me in church. He’ll be too big to hold my hand during the Supper.

While those moments last, they must be cherished.

They are communion, too.