Last Sunday I took Grandma to church.
Last Sunday her back was hurting more than usual.
Last Sunday we couldn’t make it to where we usually sit, she choose to sit in the very last pew.
Last Sunday Fuzzy was with his dad (my ex-husband) and didn’t go to mass with us.
Last Sunday I relished every time Grandma squeezed my hand.
Last Sunday my mind wandered during the entire service, I couldn’t tell you a thing about it… it’s true.
I sat in the last pew, among the little bitty kids and the older folk. I’d never sat there in this church before.
The view was different. I saw the back of many heads I had never seen before. I heard things I wasn’t used to hearing. I giggled out loud as a young mother near me whispered sternly “So help me GOD if you don’t sit down and shut up during church I am going to take you to the car!” heh! Good stuff.
I reflected on my own years in the back row of our former church. I sternly whispered to Fuzzy many times. It’s tough with a young’n. They don’t get it, they’d rather be doing anything else, and their attention span isn’t that long. It is important that they go, of course, but it sure ain’t easy!
So as I sat among the Cheerios and coloring books I started missing my little man bunches. I was remembering the days where I’d show up to church many minutes late, in a shirt that already had something spilled down the front, hair unkept, under eye circles prominent. I’d struggle to keep my exhausted self awake and pray Fuzz didn’t get hungry.
Last Sunday I was wishing I could have his little, sweaty, napping head curled into my neck and his little diapered bottom in my hand one more time.
Last Sunday I snapped out of the baby fever just in time to be thankful to have no need to haul snacks, diapers, Matchbox cars and crayons to church.