Church Family

Sunday is a time for quiet reflection. For me, this means going to church. In the very beginning, when my husband and I first started our family, it had a different connotation. We went as a family, literally dragging our children behind us. It was not quiet time back then; but it was family time, in a weird way.

We spent most of our time sitting in the pew and taking turns admonishing one or both of the kids (our youngest was not yet on the scene). That quiet reflection was distinctly absent from the experience. Over time, my husband bowed out of the experience and chose to do his quiet reflection in his cave. And, eventually, I chose to conveniently forget my faithful duty of instilling the Word of God into my children and slowly forgot to drag them along with me...

...leading to the day, many years ago, when going to church became a solo activity. It remains so to this day.

Staying true to my beliefs, one would think that I somehow found a way to turn this seemingly lonely solo activity into a fruitful solo, and distinctly "not" lonely, experience. Alas, I have not. I continue to go to church, solo, and every Sunday it continues to be lonely. I often wonder why. What am I missing? What am I not doing?

For starters, I am alone in a church filled with families or couples. Introducing myself at the beginning of Mass is the easy part. After all, the attention is directed towards introducing oneself to others one doesn't already know. Greetings to strangers, complete with handshake, smile, and a cheery "good morning". Not so easy is extending peace after The Lord's Prayer. This is geared toward family first, then strangers. I wait patiently for husbands to hug wives, then move to hug their children, and only if there is time left over turn to the loners in the pews around them. That would be me...the loner.

Sitting alone in the pew before Mass is not so difficult. I watch, amused, as families enter the pews and attempt to corral their children. Some families are better at this than others. Many of the families in my church put on their Sunday best. It brings a sly smile to my face thinking about what the parents had to go through only a short time earlier to get their 5-year-old son to put on khakis and a polo shirt, complete with belt and combed hair. Their daughter probably did not put up that much of a battle; however, there was some battle about which dress to wear with which accessories. I remember it all. I was always the oddball in this area. The clothing battle was one I was willing to acquiesce in order to win the war. Perhaps that is where my downfall began.

The teenagers are always a joy to watch. Most of them come in with an obvious attitude: mainly, they don't want to be here and would rather be sleeping. They have been dragged here, either through cajoling or guilt, in the parents' efforts to get them to show their face. To God? To the community? For their own good? It's hard to determine the motives of the parents. But, that is not my place to judge. I probably gave up on my teenagers too early. One Sunday of missed church turned into two, then a whole month. Before I even knew it, missing church became the pattern and the Word of God became less than a whisper to them. My downfall continued.

I sit alone, most times lonely (yes, you heard me say it here!), at the end of the pew. I sit at the end because it is easier to make a quick exit after the exit procession. I pray. I gaze at the figure of Christ on the cross, hanging over the altar. I marvel at His Death and Resurrection and how it impacts me. I take in the beauty of the stained glass window behind the altar. Just last Sunday I realized, after more than 3 years of attending this church, that it is the Hand of God that is depicted in the large circular mosaic. Once I figured that out, I moved my attention to the other part of the same window. I think for sure it is a dove landing in His Hand. Peace? Forgiveness?

Ofttimes I wonder what the other people think of me as I sit alone in the pew. Do they even realize I am alone? They probably think I am just saving the space for my husband, who is delayed outside trying to park the car. Except my husband never arrives. Do they notice, as they scan the church to see who is there? Do they care? I look around for other loners and identify very few of them.

Mostly I sit there sorting through my regrets of many years of child rearing. Those years are not over yet, by any means, but I regret that I didn't drag my children to church, even when my husband stopped going. I pray that my children will find their own peace, like I have had to do.

I realize that, despite my efforts, I have allowed to continue a cycle that started with my mother. I have repeated history in that she experienced the same things with me and my brothers when we were younger. To a tee. Why did I let this happen?

The answer is that I lost my focus early on and have only just now found it. But now I am alone and have to pay the price for that choice and pray that God will allow me to make up for it sometime soon, either with my children directly, or through their children. Maybe.

Until then, I continue my weekly mission and am grateful that there are others out there who chose not to cave in to the increasing pressure to just do it solo and forget about their family.