Forgiveness

Forgive me Father for I
keep sinning.
Of course, You know this
like You know better than I do when I last confessed.
For You are not clergy
and I am no Catholic.
I have no use for stations, beads, or intercessors
and therein lies the problem.
I speak to my God in second person
on my own schedule and terms,
without the impersonal trappings of ritual and religion,
which is to say,
infrequently
and at my own convenience.
I pray when I want something,
seldom for what I need.
I speak to You as a preface to hearty meals,
in soothing tones to lull my child to sleep.
Tears have streaked my face and dried long before I look upward.
A true saint's prayers
would spring from them.
When troubles arise, I button my shirt,
put on my game face,
go it alone.
In hindsight I tell myself I shouldn't bother you with trivial matters.
Best to call in my favors when they are most needed.
As though You owe me one.
Although You've taught me to pray for daily bread,
that You've numbered my every hair
and care even for the sparrow
who is somehow able to trust when I do not.
Even in those moments of repentance
amidst promises that, "starting today,
things are going to be different around here"
sackcloth and ashes are always temporary.
Exchanging them for jeans and a sweater,
there is every intention
that I will once again look into scripture,
hold Your word up as a mirror,
pluck the logs, then the specks,
remove every blemish I see.
It does not happen.
These new clothes are too comfortable.
Self-confidence and complacency
get the better of me.
I let my arm drop.
The mirror no longer shows me what I look like.
Still gazing in that direction, listless,
I don't even notice when it happens,
for I am to busy admiring the new reflections
earthly trappings,
coveting some,
thinking they are within my grasp,
inspecting others for imperfections, 
feeling hints of satisfaction when I find them.
Knowing I am forgiven,
I start thinking I am good with You.
In my memory I am still devout, hopeful, and thin.
I mark passages with frayed ribbons
in a Bible worn with use,
set Your words as my guideposts,
walk the straight and narrow path.
It is in these moments I most need confession.
when I should seek Your will, not my own.
If I am honest,
I can't find my worn Bible.
If I am honest,
I haven't looked for it lately.
It's OK, though, because there are other copies on the dusty bookshelf,
because they have them in the pews at Church.
Because I can read it online.
Because I've already read it all through, surely, several times over.
Even if I haven't looked in a while,
I can still remember my reflection, more or less.
I know about where the imperfections used to be.
And of course, I say, if it is in Your will,
the Book will turn up soon enough,
never thinking it might be Your will
for me to seek it.
Perhaps I need a hook.
Maybe I need stories and superstitions,
trappings and traditions,
fish on Fridays,
pilgrimages to shrines,
sculptures of saints,
incense and cantors,
cathedrals and stained glass,
anything
to get me right again.
to keep me coming back when I should
to know the only way I'll ever fix myself
is to remember what You look like,
and that I can't do this on my own.