Saint Kimbo I Am Not

You know when I first realized that sainthood might not be for me?

Second grade.

I was sitting in religion class, listening to my teacher--who was, quite possibly, the scariest woman ever--talk about the joys of the stigmata and the saints who had experienced it.

And I summoned all the courage of my second grade self and asked "So, they're bleeding all the time? Isn't that..." and I didn't say "gross" but I think everyone knew where I was going.

"The blood is perfumed with the odor of sanctity!" My teacher told me.

I'm sure I nodded like that was really profound--after all, she was the scariest woman ever--but in my head I was thinking "Yeah, that's still gross."

And I figured my chances of sainthood we're pretty well shot.

I'm older now and I do have a better understanding of the stigmata and true piety and a variety of other religious issues but I decided last Sunday at mass that sainthood is probably still out of reach.

Largely because I spent most of mass having an inner debate on which of the following people were irritating me more:

The woman in front of me who was chewing gum for the entire service.

The older people behind me who thought they were whispering but were, in fact, sharing their thoughts with the whole church...and kept giggling about the fact that they were more poorly behaved than half the children.

The old guy right behind me who, in spite of the fact that the entire rest of his and my pews were both empty, decided he needed to hang his cane directly on the back of my pew so I couldn't sit down without it digging into my spine.

Unless there's a dire need for a patron saint of "I try not to judge but I'm seriously considering beating you to death." I think I'm out of luck.

L is for Liturgician

Liturgician  -- noun, a person who studies the church and church rituals


I am a church goer but I am NOT a Liturgician. I wish I was, though, because if I studied church rituals--heck if I'd studied last week's bulletin, I might have realized that at our new church, the entire congregation processes into the sanctuary on Palm Sunday. Everyone, that is, except the extremely old, the infirm, and--apparently--Opie and I who were alarmed at all the cars in the parking lot and rushed in to find a good seat.

We were so proud of ourselves...right until the moment all the singing started out in the vestibule.

"Are we supposed to be in here?" Opie demanded.

But it was too late.  The parade of congregants were already marching in, waving their palm fronds high in the air, using them to whip the heretic infidels who were already seated (ok, that might be a slight exaggeration), and generally causing a religious ruckus while Opie and I slunk down in our pew trying to become invisible.

Seriously, where is a liturgician when you need one??