The pews are hard on all of us at 8 a.m.
We squirm discreetly, trying hard to be holy
As Saturday night’s sins swim through our brains.
Our lazy eyes roll about dim yellow lighting,
And narrow at wailing children.
And you sit, spine fastened to the back of God’s

wooden sofa,
Glue-gunned by Jesus.
Head upright, black-lined eyes to the altar, motionless.
Like a tiger-sensing gazelle.
Your immaculate pin-straight hair is bunned
As tightly as your heart has grown over the years.
You look to your grinning husband.
“Lord, grant me strength.”
His hands quiver with disease.
“Lord, grant me hope,” you pray.
And you know that in ten minutes he will lend
That childish smile and those shaking, disfigured
Limbs to half the church in friendship.
“Lord, grant me patience.”
Doctor bills and difficult in-laws have worn you

down like sandpaper.
But who has time to be brittle when you’ve got

people to save?
You bear your burdens on your back,
And life’s deck of cards has got you tacked down
Like the world’s ultimate martyr right in front of you.
At the end of the day, you still ask,
“Why me?”
Because not everyone has the time to be a saint.