And Now We Bow Our Heads in Prayer

Dear Lord,

it’s me, Barbara Czernicki.

But of course, You knew that.

Unlike some people here,

You hear from me pretty often.

I bet when Norma Pfeiffer deigns

to show up for Mass,

You say, “Norma who?”

Or those O’Briens.

They always seem to have

five children between the ages

of four and twelve,

no matter how much time passes,

all those children in their soccer uniforms,

if they bother to show up at all,

because little Maddison or Addison

or Aiden or Braden or Jaden

has some kind of soccer tournament

500 miles away,

and back in my day,

none of that nonsense was scheduled

on a Sunday,

but parents these days can’t say no

to anyone, let alone some fanatic coach,

but when they’re here,

I’m sure everyone in a three-pew radius

is just praying for a stiff drink,

all that fidgeting and whining and sighing

and chattering and punching

when their parents aren’t looking,

and their parents are never looking.

You’d think the older ones

would be altar boys or girls by now,

but no, we can’t miss any soccer practice,

and Father Zerbinsky wouldn’t even be able

to give them the smacks on the head

they all so richly deserve.

Of course, Lord,

You see Ben and Diana Tannenbaum sitting there,

right in front of me,

trying so desperately to hold it all together,

and Ben tries to sneak looking at his cell phone

during Mass because he has no respect for You—

is it work he’s obsessed with

or a certain female coworker?

The one he calls his “work wife”

while Diana rolls her eyes—

I can’t tell because Diana nudges his side,

hard, with her elbow,

and he quietly sighs and puts the phone away.

Like a teenager, I swear to You, Lord!

And Lord, I really have to have a talk

with Your servant, Father Zerbinsky.

He’s been having us sing

all the verses of the hymns lately

and has been choosing

the extra-long Eucharistic prayers,

and his sermons have been rambling and—

I’m sorry to say it—

almost political lately,

and that’s not what this parish is all about.

We are devout to You, Lord,

but also efficient,

which is what I imagine pleases You most

with all the long-winded services

You must attend every week,

like the ones with those miserable Slovaks and Greeks.

Father Zerbinsky needs to understand

that just because his predecessor has retired

doesn’t mean Father gets to change everything

and start encouraging teenagers to lead

the Responsorial Psalm with their horrible guitars

and forcing us all to hold hands

during The Lord’s Prayer,

Your prayer,

when I’m sure You’d rather these people keep

their grubby little hands to themselves

for once.

Dear Lord,

as this moment of silent prayer,

which has gone on far too long already,

comes to an end,

I just want to thank You

for the gift of patience

You have given me

so that I can suffer my fellow believers.

Amen.