The bit of cracker sits beside the small plastic cup brim full in the cup of my hands. I ponder the words, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

Was He afraid we’d forget?

Faces of the ones I love come to mind. How I want them to remember my sacrifice. So I tell the stories of long nights of lost sleep and love. Of even longer days in NICU units. Twice. Wires, beeps, reminders everywhere of the taut, tenuous string between labored breaths . . and death. Of silent song prayers hummed quiet and constant till throat turned raw.

I want them to remember.

Not because I have some egotistic need for appreciation. I want them to remember because the tears, and lost sleep, and desperate prayers, and fragile hopes were the bleeding of my heart. Pierced through with love.

I want them to remember because as they remember they’ll know love again.

Is that why we eat the broken bread and drink the cup? Not because He needs us to remember, but because if we forget we cut ourselves off from the memory of hands, feet, brow . . heart. Pierced through with love.

I eat. I drink. And I know love again.