“I really had to pray hard before I took that shot this morning,” she said.

A full minute passed in legitimate confusion before realization hit and a laugh escaped even as tears filled my eyes. One of my babies who, bless her heart, had hardly been in church a day in her life – was referring to the communion we had taken at church that morning. To her, the little plastic cups of grape juice that were passed out with great reverence could only be compared to actual shot glasses used for alcohol.

Growing up with an alcoholic father and an absent, drug-addicted mother, she’d experienced everything but communion.  Until now.  Until this tiny representation of the precious blood of Jesus touched her lips.

She had to pray hard before she took it, because Jesus had moved her heart, months ago. She knew the weight of his grace. She understood the price he had paid. And though she doesn’t know how to put it into words, the blood that fills this little shot glass is changing her. It is teaching her to love. It fills her with hope. It covers over dark nights and neglect and shame and abuse. It means that He’s going to do something absolutely beautiful with her life. It means she can break the cycle. It means she is free.