We define On Time a bit differently, and in the years of our wedded bliss, I have found myself altering my definition. If we’re walking in during the entrance hymn, I can now still call myself On Time. If, however, everyone is seated (as in after the processional), then we’re Late.
I wonder if Mary ever struggled with this in the mornings when it was time to go to the temple and worship. I get up plenty early, and usually so does my husband. But at some point, the ability to manage our precious getting-ready moments slips right through our fingers. Maybe it has to do with the snuggling toddler; maybe it is a function of weekend wallowing with each other; maybe it’s just poor time management.
We spend all week managing our time, getting the most out of every hour, multi-tasking until we collapse in our bed at night. It seems that Sunday, as a day of rest, should be exempt from that.
But then we’re Late for Mass.
I see Jesus, hanging there on the cross, and feel like I have really let him down by being late to this Banquet Feast that I so need, that I spend the week yearning for. I see the assembly, I hear the music, I feel myself, once again, coming home…but I’m Late.
I have resigned myself to thinking it’s not the end of the world. There are worse things than being a wee bit Late to Mass (like not being there at all, the Voice-that-sounds-just-like-my-husband in my head pipes up).
Even so, my Advent resolution is to be On Time (or, dare I say it, Early) for Mass. If that means I rouse the sleeping hubby twenty minutes earlier, so be it. If that means I don’t get online first thing (*pause for gasping breath*), there will be time later.
After all, Mass won’t wait for me. I have to get there to receive the graces I need to get through my week!