Morning Mass

I had a chance to go to morning Mass.

I was sitting there, thinking about ... this blog, a poem, the way the light was hitting the altar, a clever response to something someone said yesterday.

Mass started. I mouthed the prayers.

The lector mispronounced the reading's title. Twice. The Letter of St. Paul to the Theologians. Thessalonians? Theologians.

A woman rushed in. Late. In the middle of the first reading. She sat in front of me.

Hurrying to work. Maybe. But she does this regularly.

What's the second reading?

Will the woman leave early as she often does?

Father is saying something. A homily. Hard to hear him. Hard to understand him.

On with the Mass. Consecration.

Working on a poem.

Oh, right, Jesus.

The late woman shakes my hand at the sign of peace.

Communion.

I kneel after.

Thank you Lord.

That poem again.

The woman hurries out. Where?

Mass ends.

I leave.

I sit in my car.

I wonder why I came.

I wonder why my mind would not focus.

I wonder if I ever will make it to heaven.

The Letter of St. Paul to the Distracted.