A prayer of crumbs and regret

Father, I have sinned.
Not in some grand, dramatic way.
But a slow, steady, one-more-won’t-hurt kind of way.
Six times, to be honest.
But you know that already.

The box said “serves six.”
I served myself.
Generously.
And the port, Lord.
It was supposed to be a single glass.
Maybe two.
It became more than a sip.

Now I sit here.
Full.
So very full.
Wondering how it happened.
Wondering where my self-control went.
Wondering if my M&S 4-way stretch fit jeans could be seen as a spiritual blessing.

I started with good intentions.
Just one.
A taste of Christmas.
A small moment of joy.
But the first one was so good.
And the second seemed divine.
And by the third I had already jumped in with both feet.
Four, five, and six were just, well…
…finishing what I started.

Forgive me for telling myself it was mainly fruit.
Deep filled with spiced fruit.
Forgive me for pretending the pastry didn’t count.
Forgive me for saying “it’s nearly Christmas” like that’s a valid theological position that I could find in the New Testament.

And yet.
You’re the one who turned water into wine at a party.
You’re the one who fed five thousand until they were satisfied.
You’re the one who spoke of feasts and banquets and tables overflowing.
You made my tastebuds.
You invented wheat to make the flour…
…that when combined with butter makes the pastry so so good.
You’re the one who looked at the earth and said “let there be sultanas and raisins” and saw that they were good.

Maybe this isn’t about the pies themselves.
Maybe it’s about getting out tomorrow.
Going for a walk.
Buying another box from Tesco.
Then actually sharing them this time.
But tonight, Lord, right now…
…I just need to sit very still and breathe slowly.
Let the sugar comedown come.
Then sleep if I can.

I’ll try harder next time Lord.
Forgive me if you can.

Amen.