Let's try again...
No big resurgence of passion for the job, but someone's gotta do it.
I want to do things right. At work, at home. And I wind up in such a ball of toxic introspection ("curvatus in se" sounds better, doesn't it?) that nothing is accomplished. So this morning's first prayer, tagged onto a fifteen second morning offering, was "help me get going."

I'll overlook the household flaws that scream "Bad Mother." I figure I'm in trouble any way you look at it. If I don't do things, I'm a Bad Mother. If I haven't properly trained people to do things, I'm a Bad Mother. (Why am I even bothering to work? If I'm such a bad mother, why don't I just spend my days sipping Bloody Marys at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop? Or curled up in a ball watching The Royal Tennenbaums and Little Miss Sunshine? Why? Dedication...mortification...inertia...)
The problem is after the phone is answered. There are things that I just am not able to do.
There are services that our parish cannot render. Really.
I can’t do anything about your friend’s husband’s incarceration*. And the extra 30 days for that violent outburst.
And the missing disability check.
And the poverty, despair, bad decisions.
Really. If I had all the answers would I have just had that call from my bank about the substantial overdraft?

There is only so much that we can do. I pray for wisdom, compassion and control of my tongue. If you think I’m pleasant but ineffectual, you should hear what I’m thinking. But I’m not totally heartless. And the lack of detachment from the callers’ woes is where I get exhausted.

The cleaning lady is in the hall outside my office and she’s dusting the baseboards, so now I’m thinking of home and the baseboards that never get dusted…Curvatus in se meets shame spiral. (BTW, I did find a good use for that floor grabber thingamajig that I had to use for several weeks after my hip surgery. Mildew high on bathroom walls and ceilings can be obliterated by grasping a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser with the grabber and rubbing as vigorously as working with a two and a half foot arm extension will allow. That certainly beats trying to balance on a step stool in a slippery bath tub.

*Incarceration. Why do we have to say incarceration? Jail or prison sounds too low brow? It’s pompous. How about matriculation? Can I tell you about my daughter’s matriculation?