I often cross myself in worship especially when the bread and wine of Christ are re-membered in me. The gesture is an affirmation of who I am and whom I follow. Today the cross is smudged on my face for all to see how poorly I reflect his cross I claim as my own. It is out of focus, lacking the crisp outline even a shadow can cast. My feeble attempts at following in his way make my cross indistinct. And so I turn again, accept the invitation to come closer, slowly, to the cross made dim by distance until its texture and detail draw me in, fill my vision, and define me.