by Jill Clingan
I felt a tap on my shoulder, startling me from my reverie. It
was a spring Sunday morning. My husband
was upstairs helping with the kids. I was sitting alone in my pew. The service was winding down, and it was time
for communion. As I was sitting in that
pew, with my head bowed, I probably looked the part of a pensive, meditative
worshipper.
But I was not praying. I was staring down at the spiral bound
notebook in my lap. The tap on my shoulder was so startling because I was
afraid I was going to get caught, and I immediately sought to conceal the small
book.
I had not been jotting down sermon notes or composing a
pre-communion prayer. Instead, I had been scribbling out my to-do list, a list
that spanned laundry and homeschool prep and long-overdue emails and
housecleaning. As I stared down at my completed list, I felt overwhelmed and a
wee bit panicky that I was sitting quietly in church rather than ticking
something off of that list.
The tap on my shoulder had distracted me out of a meditation more
tellurian than sacred.