 This annual stock-taking is a night-shift job.
Better to count up the inventory without people watching—
it’s messy—pulling everything off the shelves, deciding what gets put back, what gets tossed.
And shameful.
Shameful like thank-God-they-can’t-see-my-thoughts,
like thank-God-they-don’t-know-what-I’m-really-feeling.
Maimonides taught that human courts only pass judgement on our actions,
but that God knows our hearts and minds.
That’s a problem.
Even on the overnight shift,
with the store doors locked, EarPods in, bar-code scanner in hand,
there are no secrets.
No pretending we are better than we are,
which is not very good,
our better angels out back, smoking in the parking lot.
If I could only say one word of repentance to this God who sees it all,
it might simply be
sorry
or perhaps my own name.
