Where's Waldo?

I am the picture of self-consciousness as we process to communion. Having a little conversation with myself. Hopefully only in my head, though I can’t be sure.

“Do not grimace at the children when they torture each other and do not give anyone a “cease and desist” pinch that makes them drop to their knees on the marble floor.”

“Maintain perfect posture. Chest out, shoulders back, head held high. I learned this in charm school. Or was it Brownie Camp?”

“Smile warmly at the usher like I am a nice person, even though I think he is an idiot and have since high school. And his sister too. A matched set.”

“Keep eyes affixed in a Valium gaze that is entirely out of focus, so no one can be sure where I am looking or if I see them, even if Casey sees me first and begins wildly gesticulating to get my attention as I proceed reverently with folded hands to the altar.
It is the grown up practical version of sticking my head in the sand. If I can’t see you it is sure as shit that you can’t see me. Nope. No you can’t.”

My children are ahead of me in The Line that we Catholics are so fond of. Something I do every week to ensure folded hands, few departures from the course, and minimal pushing and shoving along the way to Our Lord’s Table. (This dinner table should differ from any other?)

We are through one stanza of the hymn when my daughter abruptly whips around and almost whispers, but not quite “There he is!” and makes a gesture meant only for me to see – but we all know how that goes.

I try to ignore her and smile politely but she is walking backwards, insisting that I look up and confirm Casey’s identity.

I gesture that she should turn around at once (hairy eyeball and gritted teeth included).

I hear a chortle from beside me and look up.

Yes, I did.

And in a split second, am in a flop sweat.

There beside me, having observed the whole interaction, was a man who could for darn sure be mistaken for Casey.

But, thank the saints and apostles, is not.

I am so completely relieved, that I laugh in the poor guy’s face.

I am not at all clear – or even concerned for that matter – about what he thinks may have just happened, but he says, “Hello,” and so do I, and we return to our reverent procession, which is a great excuse not to over-explain my daughter’s having made a spectacle of us both.

Another bullet dodged, real or imagined. Amen.