You know what’s the worst? After thinking about my sins for half an hour in line for Confession, I see the light above the confessional go out and realize that I’m out of luck. It’s like missing trash pick-up day. I’m left holding the bags until next week.

Also, the worst is when a lost shoe, hair that didn’t dry right, and an empty gas tank make me exactly on time for Mass. There’s nothing like hustling to church just in time to process in as if I’m one of the servers.

It’s almost as bad as forgetting an important patron’s feast day, like when Father announces that it’s the Feast of St. Anthony — patron saint of lost articles.

I really should know that one far in advance so that I can celebrate it properly. In justice, I owe St. Anthony an annual parade in his honor.

All year long, he helps me find my flotsam that I fail to put away in the right spot, especially my car keys that he’s helped me locate in my seasonal purse, regular purse, beach bag, jeans pocket, stack of paperwork, dark corner of the closet, winter glove bin, laptop bag, and under the driver’s seat of the car.

That’s only a little worse than missing the kneeler because I didn’t realize that someone in my pew had put it up.

When my kneecap hits the ground bearing my full weight, it’s a win if I can stifle the gasp of shock and pain.

It’s also a win if I catch myself before getting clotheslined by the top of the pew.

Or, if I’ve lowered myself successfully onto the kneeler and I get my size 11s wedged under the pew behind me.

If I try to stand, I’m at a 45-degree angle over the pew in front of me.

To extricate myself, I need to twist my feet roughly to the side before rising like I hadn’t been wrestling with an invisible entity.

Or, when it’s time to bring the kneeler down, I fumble the move and it crashes to the ground before I can catch it, making the row of people ahead of me jump. Is there anything louder than a falling kneeler?

For the rest of Mass, I raise and lower it with 1,000 percent focus so that it doesn’t happen again.

All of that is pretty rough, but so is finding myself on occasion at the front of church and needing to sit, stand, and kneel at the correct times without any assistance from the congregation.

It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been attending Mass, I still second-guess myself about the proper posture if I don’t have anyone in front to lead me.

I hedge my bets and ooze into a sitting/kneeling/crouching position, occasionally popping up to stand for good measure.

Do you know what’s also the worst? Getting the date for Donut Sunday wrong.

When I don’t hear the missive after Mass to stop by the parish hall for donuts even though I had a really good feeling that it would be this Sunday, I cling to hope and swing by the hall anyway just to check on things.

But, when I see the darkened room with nary a bakery box in sight, I have to pretend like I wasn’t hyped for that chocolate sprinkle donut.

The same goes for when I get the Lenten fish fry date mixed up and realize that I’ll have to, in fact, make dinner that night.

But going to church and being absolved of my sins in Confession, encountering God’s love through the Liturgy of the Word and the community, and receiving His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in the Eucharist?

It’s the best.