I sit in class, distracted,
pulling a hangnail,
nursing the wounds of winter
on rough and feeble hands,
angry (irrationally) at my dishes.
At home, later,
I plunge my hands into hot water,
scraping sponge against porcelain,
grateful that tonight,
little strength is required for the task.
On Saturday, I visited a museum,
an exhibit of Byzantine art,
and I viewed a plate and two cups
forged in silver,
scraped and worn.
For over a thousand years
these chalices, this plate
were passed, partaken from
and polished
by rough, sometimes feeble hands.
And while I hold enmity towards my dishes,
they connect me to this display
much like the bread and the wine,
the body and blood,
this silver once held.
Saints unknown to me
but known to my Father,
cleansed their chargers,
soaked their cups.
Swallowed the same host
sipped the same mercy.
And I am in awe.
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