When They Don't Have Any Today

I walked up to the sacristan before Mass, like I always do. Early, polite, discreet. “Hi, I have celiac disease, could I have a low-gluten host for Communion?”

She looked at me apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t have any today.”

That was it. Mass was starting in four minutes. The priest was already vesting. There was no one else to ask, no backup plan, no magic pyx hiding in a drawer.

I stood there for a moment, feeling the familiar weight of being different in a space that’s supposed to be home.

The First Time This Happened

The first time it happened, I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t thought about contingencies because I assumed the parish would just… have them. Why wouldn’t they? I’d asked. They’d said yes. I’d been receiving this way for months.

But someone forgot to reorder. Or the new sacristan didn’t know. Or the box got misplaced. Or it was a holiday and the usual volunteer wasn’t there.

It doesn’t matter why. What matters is you’re standing in the narthex with Mass about to start, and your plan just evaporated.

What I Did

I went to the cup.

It wasn’t what I’d planned. It felt awkward. When I walked past the regular Communion line and straight to the Precious Blood, the minister gave me a slightly confused look, most people receive the host first. I mumbled something and took a sip and walked back to my pew.

And I received Christ. Fully. Completely.

But I was rattled. Not because the theology was wrong (it wasn’t), but because I’d been caught off guard, and being caught off guard when you have celiac disease feels like a small failure. Like you should have seen this coming. Like you should have been more prepared.

What I’ve Learned Since

Now I have a mental checklist before any Mass:

Is the cup offered? If yes, I have a backup. If no, I need to be certain about the host situation.

Do I have hosts with me? I keep a small stash in my bag now. Three sealed low-gluten hosts in a ziplock, just in case. Not elegant, but effective.

Can I receive from this parish’s chalice? Some parishes use intinction (dipping the host in the cup). If the cup isn’t offered separately, that changes the calculation.

Is this a parish that knows me? At my home parish, they know. At a strange parish, I can’t assume anything.

Being prepared doesn’t mean being anxious. It means having a plan so that when something goes wrong, you’re not frozen in the sacristy doorway with Mass starting in four minutes.

The Real Feelings Underneath

Let’s be honest: it stings when a parish can’t accommodate you. Even when it’s an honest mistake. Even when everyone is apologetic.

Because in that moment, you feel like an afterthought. Like the Church is for everyone else, and you’re an exception that someone forgot to account for.

That’s not theologically true. But feelings don’t read theology.

I’ve had to work through this. The parish isn’t rejecting me. The sacristan isn’t being malicious. Celiac disease is relatively rare, and managing it requires systems, and systems sometimes fail.

But also: I’m allowed to feel frustrated when they fail. Both things can be true.

Grace in the Moment

Here’s what I try to remember: I came to receive Christ. If I receive Him from the cup instead of from a host, I still receive Him. If I receive Him from a different minister than planned, I still receive Him. If I receive Him anxiously instead of peacefully, I still receive Him.

The grace isn’t diminished by the scramble. My communion with God isn’t dependent on the logistics going smoothly.

I try to offer up the inconvenience. Maybe that sounds pious, but it’s practical: I’m going to be annoyed anyway, so I might as well direct it somewhere useful.

“Lord, I offer you this small frustration. Make it mean something.”

Advocating Without Being Annoying

After Mass, I said something. Politely, but clearly.

“I wanted to let you know that I wasn’t able to receive a host today because there weren’t any low-gluten hosts available. I was able to receive from the cup, so it worked out, but I wanted to make sure you knew so it doesn’t happen again.”

The sacristan was mortified. Promised it wouldn’t happen again. And to her credit, it hasn’t at that parish since.

Advocating for yourself isn’t being a nuisance. It’s helping the parish serve everyone better. Many priests and sacristans genuinely want to get this right, they just need the feedback.

For Next Time

Now I do a few things differently:

1. I confirm before I assume. At an unfamiliar parish, I ask about availability before Mass, even if I brought my own hosts.

2. I travel prepared. That little baggie of hosts goes with me to weddings, funerals, travel Masses, everything.

3. I know my backup. If hosts aren’t available, I know where the cup will be distributed and I go there.

4. I give myself grace. If I’m caught off guard and feel flustered, that’s okay. It doesn’t make me less faithful or less prepared.

The Bigger Picture

This is life with celiac disease: you do everything right, and sometimes things still go sideways. You prepare and plan and communicate, and then the new volunteer doesn’t know and you’re stuck.

It’s not fair. But it’s manageable.

And here’s the thing I try to remember: the Eucharist isn’t about smooth logistics. It’s about encountering Christ. As long as I receive Him, however it happens, the Mass was successful.

Even when they don’t have any today.