Sunday usually plays out like this. There’s no way I’m going to the 9 o’clock service (9 a.m. equals 6 a.m. college time, especially on weekend mornings). The 11:15 a.m. service is usually Rite I, which I’ve never been fond of as I grew up with strictly Rite II services and in true Episcopalian fashion I just can’t handle that kind of change. Then the afternoon ticks away in some combination of homework and Facebook stalking and before I know it, there’s only one option left: the eternally inconvenient 5:15 p.m. service, which completely messes up my finely tuned homework-gym-dinner schedule.

Five o’clock. I’m changing into gym clothes and starting to feel guilty about choosing the Stair Stepper over God.

Five o’clock plus thirty seconds. My Bible and Book of Common Prayer are looming on my desk. I can tell they do not approve. Okay, okay, I’ll go to church.

It’s a twenty minute walk and I realize I have no time to change into proper clothes and hope God doesn’t mind my shoes are named after a pagan God. The Nikes actually come in handy around 5:12 when I realize I’m still at least a quarter-mile away and break into an awkward jog. At 5:16 I tip-toe into the back of the nave and try to blend in with the family in the back pew. I’m sweaty, short of breath and fooling no one.

I’m singing the last verse of the opening hymn by 5:18. My pulse lowers and my heart opens. It’s always the best hour of my Sunday. Totally worth scaling the mountain of my lame excuses.