I say shit about three times on my walk to morning Eucharist on the morning of the Feast of All Saints. We’ve changed the time, the buses aren’t running yet, and I bewail the short legs my father gave me. I am only going to get there as fast as they can carry me, my limitations pounding the cement one step at a time.
I am a good bit late, finding my seat next to a man in a suit during the Old Testament reading. My breath is ragged, heart a little ragged, too. But I am proud that I know the service well enough to not need the paper program I missed on the way in. I know when to say, “we lift them [our hearts] up to the Lord,” my evangelical hand rebelliously lifting up, too. I know when to bend 45 degrees, when to cross myself. My, I’ve got it down.
But we get to the confession of sin, and I realize quickly that the form has changed for the feast day. I am kneeling, face hot, wondering if man-in-suit is judging me for not confessing. And I have so much to confess.