After the Ecstasy, the Laundry...
“It’s the most reliable high I know of.”
I told someone that, yesterday.
I was talking about Mass.
Unless you’re Catholic (and, sadly, maybe even if you are), you might not understand that.
But… It’s Jesus. Like, for realz.
I mean, how can that not just make me feel like I just slam dunked it? Like I shot it out of the park? Game, set, match? Touchdown spike?
And I’m not even that into sports.
I can have this high every day. Every morning. Sometimes twice.
Why would I ever miss it?
But I do. I do skip Mass. I skip the Eucharist. I get anxious. I get lazy and don’t plan ahead. I stay up too late the night before, and early the next morning it just seems like too much to get up and get dressed to leave. It’s not even winter. It’s. A. Five. Minute. Drive.
Soooooo lazy.
And some of those days I miss it, I don’t even really miss it. I don’t even think about it. Until the day is half gone, and I’m a hot mess, struggling along in a miasma of scatter-brained nonsense, distracted by Facebook games and arguing with trolls about what it’s really like to have a mental illness and it’s not about being bushwhacked by the ever elusive woo woo of [say it with me in a hushed tone] Big Pharma.
See? Look how easy it is.
But He is always wooing me away from the nonsense. I am “anxious and worried about many things,” but I can “choose the better part1.” He longs for me to be Mary, even though I’m such a mental Martha.
Because He loves me. And you. He longs for you.
“Can you stay with me for just one hour?2”
*****
photo credit: Fr. Joseph Illo
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