When my kids were younger, I desperately searched for a way to explain the sacraments of reconciliation and Eucharist to them in a way they’d understand. I dug in for weeks, thinking of every example, every scenario, but every conclusion seemed flawed and oversimplified.

When presenting the sacrament of reconciliation, my typical answers — “You want your heart to be clean when you receive Jesus” or “The more you go, the closer you get to God” — seemed deficient.

Plus, I didn’t want my kids to picture God sitting on a big throne, arms crossed, pouting and waiting for us to admit we were wrong before he would forgive us. While that might be our human response, it is not God’s.

And then it happened: My tech-savvy husband explained to my mother how cellphone coverage worked.

“You see, Mom, these bars tell you how good your connection will be,” he explained. “The closer you are to a cell site, the more bars, the better the connection and the clearer you’ll be able to hear the other person on the phone.”

In that moment, a wrecking ball swooped down, shattering the veil of my surface belief: God is the cell site; he’s always there. He’s always waiting for us; his signal is always strong. His voice is everywhere, and he waits patiently for us to connect.

But when we have too many failings weighing on our hearts, we are like the cellphone with limited or no coverage: Our network is spotty at best. God’s words of consolation and love are muted or lost because of the sin blocking the connection.

That’s where confession comes in. When we examine our lost ways and express the failings in our actions or thoughts, we take the necessary steps closer to God’s cell tower. When we receive absolution, our weak service instead skyrockets, all five bars ready. Reconciliation restores full service to our hearts so we can hear God speaking.

Now … what about the Eucharist?

Not long after the cell-service revelation, our pastor was talking about tithing one Sunday. You know, that awkward moment when the parish priest has to ask the parishioners to give what they can so the lights and heat can stay on in the church.

Our priest stood up and pointed to the church’s crucifix and said, “He gave 110%!”

You can’t out-give that. And then, once again, that wrecking ball of faith slammed into me, blasting away my mediocrity.

When was the last time I gave my whole self without holding back, without worrying what others would think? When did I tell someone my innermost thoughts and needs? More importantly, what was the other person’s response?

In that moment, I realized Jesus gives his whole self to us in the Eucharist: 110% — all of who Jesus is, given to me, unconditionally.

According to 1 John 4:8, “God is love.” And if we take to heart what 1 Corinthians 13 says about love — that it is patient, kind, rejoices with the truth, bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things — then we must believe, “Love never fails.”

Transfer that love to the Eucharist. When we receive Jesus at Communion, we are taking in Love. We are privy to Christ at his most vulnerable moment — when he wants to give everything he has to us.

What is our response to his vulnerability?

Have we readied our hearts through the sacrament of reconciliation, all five bars ready to meet Christ?

While discussing these ideas with a friend, her response was she understood the awesome responsibility of receiving Christ; therefore, she only went to Mass when she felt she could give 100% of herself. She felt as though she was a bad Catholic for not going every weekend (we are to keep holy every Sabbath), but she wanted the Eucharist to be special. Even though I completely disagree with her decision, I can comprehend the gravity of it.

I would, however, also counter with the following: Relationships are two-sided, including our relationship with Jesus. If we believe that God formed our inmost being, knit us in our mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13), then we must accept that he knows our strengths and our weaknesses. He knows when we feel inadequate and not enough. He knows we are human.

It is in those moments when we should long for the Eucharist even more than when we can give 100%. His wholeness fills our emptiness. And isn’t that what we all desire — to be whole?

In Scripture, we hear that God is perfect, and we are to be perfect as God is perfect. Can there be a time when we could be closer to perfection than when we take in the Eucharist? In the Lectio Eucharist study by theologian Brant Pitre, the author bolsters the idea that we are meant for the Trinity. He says that when we take in Christ, we take in the whole Trinity, since the Father cannot be separated from the Son, and the Spirit cannot be without the Father or the Son.

If we embed this in our being, can there be a greater moment during this earthly life than receiving the Eucharist? As we reach out for Christ in the Eucharist, we welcome him and in turn receive the Father and the Holy Spirit.

My hope for us all is that we will take in Christ. Take all of him. Christ is vulnerable in the Eucharist, more exposed than we could ever be in any situation. He offers his love, hope, sacrifice, consolation, adulation, confirmation and healing — his whole being to us — just as we are, just who we are because he delights in us. If we dare to let him into those deep recesses of our hearts, the ones he already knows about but we are afraid to share — if we freely offer all of ourselves — we receive 110% in return.

He knows who we are and loves us individually and fully. If we meet him there in the most quiet of moments, in the holiest of moments; if we encounter him in the Eucharist, he will fill us with all that we need. In those holiest of moments, when we encounter the living Christ, we are granted access to the infinite love of the Creator, the salvation of the Savior and the anchor that is the Holy Spirit.

And no longer will we ache for anything else.

Loretta Oakes writes about

religion and science at

Complementary Thoughts

(LorettaOakes.blogspot.com).