Sitting in His Own Pew?

Church – The children who bound out of bed at dawn’s early light somehow need hibernation-quality sleep on Sunday.

It is a feat of superhuman patience and motivational speaking to get my two tweens 1) vertical, 2) appropriately clothed, 3) reasonably groomed, 4) adequately fed, 5) seated in the car, 6) protesting at a minimum.

I am sure it is a familiar scene across the globe. No twelve year old turns a cartwheel on the way into church.

But we are late. Try to conceal your shock.

It’s not really the kids’ fault. I am culpable in some part. I was not exactly bounding out of bed at the crack of dawn either. I was only lured out from beneath the covers by the undeniable scent of the coffee I set to perk automatically at 8.

And as I sipped my jet-fuel strength cup of liquid sanity I so enjoyed the stillness and quiet and solitude of the morning that I hesitated to disturb the peace by waking the kids. And only did so at the last minute, sending them each into a separate and distinct tizzy of their own invention.

Hair problems.
Sock issues.
Insufficient bathroom space.
Outfit changes.
Pleas for clemency.

And I cut as many corners as I could to save a minute here and there to get out of the house on time.

Jewelry in the pockets to be affixed at the red lights.
Wore the hair wavy instead of flat ironing it to Morticia Addams straightness.
Opted for the no-iron outfit, slip on shoes and no hose.
Minimal makeup – just enough to qualify as a human female of adequate will to live.

But we were still late.

We arrive after Father has taken his seat on the altar. My children are still bickering as we take our seats.

All.
The way.
Up front.

And once we are seated and our collective blood pressure has returned to normal, my daughter tugs on my sleeve to get my attention.

I am sure it is to point out something heinous and unforgivable that her brother has done.

If only.

I lean down to encourage her to whisper in my ear rather than make a general pronouncement about God Only Knows What.

She cups her hands around my ear and whispers, “Mom, look over there. I think Casey is here.”

Jesus, Mary and sweet Joseph.