Have you ever had meals delivered to your door?
I’m not talking about food prepared by some faceless chef, then delivered to your door in a dash by some nameless courier. Skip that. I’m talking home-cooked meals that arrive at your door in well-used casserole dishes covered with aluminum foil and wrapped in towels because they’ve come hot from the oven. I’m talking about meals delivered by the people who cooked them: people who know your name, and you, theirs. People who, when you invite them to, will come in and sit at your table and share the food they cooked for you. People who will swap stories with you like tasty little side dishes, laugh with you, or maybe shed a tear when a tender story drops off into silence. People who will… what’s the word I’m searching for? Commune, that’s it. They will commune with you as you break bread together. Have you ever experienced that? We did last summer, and it was healing for us––body and soul.
Let me give a little background to explain.
For almost four years, my wife, Colleen, and I were not part of a formal spiritual community. Oh, let me say it plainly––church. We did not go to church. We had no church home.
Why? Well, it began with the pandemic. The challenges of the coronavirus restrictions pushed the small church community we’d been part of for eight years to make a painful decision. We chose to let go of what we had so that those who wanted to keep meeting in person could find a church that was doing so––without feeling disloyal. We set each other free.
Colleen and I chose not to take the risk. We’d cared for both sets of parents in our home during their closing years, first mine and then Colleen’s. When the pandemic became a reality, Colleen’s dad was the last one remaining, and our concern for his wellbeing made us cautious of exposing ourselves to infection––plus the fact that we were in the vulnerable age bracket ourselves.
It took a while to get over the guilt of not going to church. We’d always been churchgoers. We both grew up in families that went to church twice every Sunday. I’d worked either as a pastor or in some church-related role for more than 40 years. Colleen had been a pastor’s kid during her formative years, so Sunday church was a deeply rooted practice in her life.
But legalistic guilt eventually loosened its grip, and we lived without attending a church for almost four years. To be honest, as the demands of Dad’s care increased, we began looking forward to churchless Sundays. They became a truly meaningful Sabbath in our week. I remember answering one friend’s sincere questioning of our unchurched life by saying, “You know, I did the math and figure I’ve gone to church on Sundays well over 6,000 times in my life. I refuse to feel guilty about taking a time-out.”
Then, on January 2, 2024, Dad moved into long-term care (LTC). The LTC system moves slowly––until one phone call shifts it into warp speed. Decisions must be made overnight. Declining may mean sliding back down the list, like some sadistic game of snakes and ladders. Fortunately for us, the call came from the same LTC facility Colleen’s mom had spent the closing year of her life in—the same one Dad had visited faithfully every day she was there. Until he couldn’t. It was as familiar as a place could be to Dad at a time when his familiarity was fading a little bit more each day. We knew he would receive competent, kind and dignified care. We prayed he’d be at peace with the decision.
So, with the pandemic no longer the threat it had been, and with Dad’s care transferred from our hands to the hands of a trusted team of care providers, we had a decision to make. Church or no church? As much as we’d both made peace with not going to church, there was something we both were missing. We’d talked about it on and off over the four years. We agreed it was what would take us back when the time was right. Not the singing or the preaching, but what we’d let go of four years earlier––the experience of belonging.
It didn’t take us long to decide. Just up the street from where we lived was a church. We liked the idea of walking to a neighbourhood church on a Sunday morning. We knew the pastor and his family well. We liked the idea of calling him our pastor. We knew enough about the church to be curious and wanted to know more. So, we started walking up the street to church. And we’ve been walking into that church each Sunday ever since. At this church, we pause between the singing and the sermon to break bread at what we call the “Big Table.” It’s where we catch up on each other’s lives over a cup of our preferred hot beverage and an ever-changing smorgasbord of tasty bits and bites. Colleen and I think we’ve found what we were missing… what’s the word I’m looking for? Community, that’s it. Our spiritual community.
And that brings me back to last summer and the healing power of food delivered to our door. In a particularly challenging season of our lives, our new spiritual community showed up. At our door. With food. And some of them sat at our table and ate with us. And when they did, it felt like… what’s the word I’m looking for? Communion, that’s it. The breaking of bread. It felt like the freshly windblown church in Jerusalem who “broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts” (Acts 2:46b).
Excuse me, I think there’s someone at our door….
Stephen Kennedy is a former editor of testimony. He lives with his wife in Peterborough, Ont.
This article appeared in the January/February/March 2025 issue of testimony/Enrich, a quarterly publication of The Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada. © 2025 The Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada. Photos © istockphoto.com.