We got to Mass this morning with only a few minutes to spare. (I hate that.) The front was pretty full, but I happily noticed that the second row had a family on the center aisle side leaving just enough room for my crew to fill in from the left. I had my older girls with me, but Bill had gotten stuck carrying the baby and herding the toddler and was way behind. The boys were somewhere in between.

I got to the row, genuflected, made sure the girls genuflected, and moved us all the way in to the middle. Kneeling down, I turned to my left to check on the rest of us, but instead of seeing my family, I saw, to my utter confusion, a strange man and his two adolescent daughters. I looked back down the aisle and saw Bill looking at me with one of those looks (like it was my fault or something).

I leaned past Jenny and said to the man, “Sir, do you mind if my husband sits here?” He said, “Oh, sure,” but instead of leaving, he shifted backward as if to let my husband get by. Sometimes brevity is not the best way to clearly communicate. I guess I should have mentioned my four other children as well. I looked at Bill, and we both shook our heads, and I said, “Just give me the baby.” He passed Mary, in her car seat, past the three interlopers, and then directed the boys to an opening five or six rows back.

I was in a snit. I know, I know it’s bad. I told myself it was bad. I told myself to get over it. But I just could not concentrate on the readings. Instead, I was evaluating the situation: Did I take his seat? There hadn’t been any coats or anything else in the pew. Was I cutting him off from the rest of his family? I recognized most of the other families nearby, and he didn’t seem to be wishing he could be closer to them. Did he not notice my husband had other little children with him? Could he not figure out that my husband was not sitting with me because there wasn’t enough room? Should I have excused myself to go and sit with my family?

It went on. I chastised myself. I thought about the blind man in the Gospels. I looked up at the crucifix and sternly reminded myself that Jesus Christ suffered and died for our sins and by way of thanks the best I can can do is sit here and mope. Petty, petty, petty.

Finally, Father got up to do his homily. At one point he talked about the classic line uttered by all children on a long car ride: Are we there yet? As we are more than halfway through Lent, it is a question we might be asking. Father said there are three components to this question. THERE, meaning we are progressing forward, YET, implying a timeline for our journey, and, of course, WE, since we, the Church, are on the trip together.

And I’m sulking like an adolescent who can’t sit next to her best friend on the bus.

It was enough. I got out of my funk; I got over it. Although sitting with my entire family would have been nice, it’s not necessary. We’re journeying together. This family next to me is trying to get to the same destination. I should be happy to share an hour of that trip with them.

But next Sunday, we will get out the door earlier, by golly.