Unworthy

I can't imagine why you would want to see me right now. What have I done to deserve being here with you? Nothing, except screw up again and again. You've done everything for me, even gave up your life. You prayed for me and endured unspeakable suffering because you love me. Why? You knew I was going to betray you and deny you and ignore you.

Right now I'm out here and you're in there. It's nice and dark and quiet out here--but not too quiet; I hear the katydids and the crickets making their music. Their lives are simple. They don't feel the need to please anyone; they just go about their business with joy and purpose, and they're not afraid to sing your praises for all the world to hear. In there it's bright and utterly silent. I can see you through the glass doors, waiting. Usually I'm eager to come see you. I stride through the doors with confidence and anticipation. I look forward to each visit. But tonight I hesitate. Who am I kidding? Have I been trying to fool myself all these years into thinking I'm a good and holy Catholic because I say my prayers and come to Mass and visit you in Adoration? Have I been trying to fool you? If I come in you'll see me in the light and then you'll really know who I am.

Maybe I'll stay here in the dark. Your Mother is out here, a statue of her, anyway; she'll understand. Maybe I'll just have her tell you hello and that I stopped by, but you were busy listening to the prayers of those more worthy than me. But I know what she'd say. Go on, he's expecting you. He knows your heart. Do you think you have more sin than anyone else? Besides, He'd be awfully disappointed if you walked away.

So I come. And when it's time to go, I don't want to. I want to stay here all night to make up for all the hurtful things I've said and done; for all the times you were hungry and I didn't feed you, lonely and in prison and I didn't visit you; a stranger and I did not welcome you. Go on home, I hear you say, and get some sleep. Remember that I'm always with you and I always love you. But before you go, would you stop by and say hello to my mother? She's been longing to see you, too.