Litany of slight guilt for believers at a Sunday Morning Football Match

Although this isn't much fun, and although we're freezing to death out here
and although we are suffering from the other lot's loud mouthed manager, who seems to think he is the Alex Ferguson of the Whitworths U-11 league,

yet we have a slight guilt.
For young Johnny [or, as it may be, Georgia or Ethan] is missing Sunday Club.
And we ourselves should be halfway through the Creed by now [evangelicals may substitute "still halfway through the sermon"].

Therefore we abase ourselves, and yet console ourselves that young Chloe [or, as it may be, Elliot or Ellis] finds the Sunday Club quite dull [we may substitute "Old Revd Grimham is going to be preaching again", or "it's the 'ensemble' playing this week", or another suitable thought to make ourselves feel better]

But we know that as surely as night turns to day, this freezing winter will pass.
And with the summer will come the close season. And we may get a few weeks back at church.

And one day young Alfie [or, as it may be, Sophia or Lucy] will get fed up running around this muddy strip of land getting kicked, and will instead discover girls [/boys/the joys of not getting up in the morning at all] and will probably never go back to church at all.

And then we will reflect that, at least our here in the rain [/snow/sleet/howling gale], we knew something of common purpose and community, of sacrifice and selflessness and endeavour.
And that maybe this wasn't so bad after all.