The forgotten rag.

For the last 19 years, Sunday has been one of my favorite days of the week… and also one of the most chaotic.

I have four children, and back when they were all little, getting everyone out the door—dressed, fed, with Bibles or church bags, and on time—felt like a small Olympic event.

Now I only have two little ones at home, and I’ve learned to let go of high standards and unrealistic expectations. These days, the main goal is simply: make it to Mass. Sometimes that means sandals. Sometimes that means no makeup at all. I do still make sure I’m dressed—I’ve never gone to Mass in pajamas. (No judgment if you have… I’m just not spiritually evolved enough yet.)

This morning, we were already running late. I skipped washing my hair (thank you, dry shampoo 🙏), got dressed, and started tidying up the house. At some point, I tucked my little cleaning rag into my pocket like I always do… and then promptly forgot all about it.

Cue the mad dash out the door with kids in tow. We made it on time. The service was beautiful. Everything was peaceful.

Until the middle of the homily.

(For those unfamiliar, the homily is the part where the priest is preaching.)

Mid-sermon, I felt something that absolutely did not feel like the texture of my pants—and I have a thing with textures. I looked down.

And there it was.

My cleaning rag.

Hanging proudly from my pants.

I had to laugh… silently, of course. Completely distracted from the message, but also completely aware: Ah yes. This is very on brand for me.

Thankfully, I’m old enough and wise enough now to give myself grace. I do things like this all the time. And if your day looks anything like mine today, here’s your reminder: have grace for yourself… and laugh a little.