Over a lifetime of church services, I’ve noticed people seem to sit in the same place week after week. But there’s drawbacks.

The front row seldom sees what happens in the back and the people in the vestibule seldom see what happens in the front. I’ve sat in both places and neither one fits me.

Growing up, we were always late for Sunday Mass. My family of nine would squeeze into the last two rows where my dad usually nodded off and my mom spent her time breaking up elbow arguments.

Until my father found religion. Then we had to sit on the front row every single Sunday.

We were always late, and it was embarrassing to walk to the front row. I vowed to never make my children sit in the front, and we never did.

When they were young, we sat in the cry room. It’s loud in there and one always leaves thinking “At least my kid’s not as bad as that other one.”

Or maybe the other moms thought that about my sons.

But then my boys grew up and we settled into sitting in the middle of the church – not too close to the front and not too close to the back.

After the boys went off to college, I continued to sit in the same middle pew. But over the past three years, I’ve struggled with organized religion, not my faith, after being bitterly disappointed by the petty lay people who were supposed to be leading by example.

I left the church for a while, but I’ve been trying to return lately. At the small parish closest to our new house, I approached a woman who was in charge of the religious education department and said I’d taught teen classes at my former parish for over 25 years. She smiled weakly, said that was nice, and walked away.

Despite the slap in the face, I still go to Sunday services but I stay in the back, feeling like I don’t belong. But a few events have me wondering if the Lord needs people in the back.

One week, a mom was struggling with her older boy. It was obvious he had emotional problems, and she was trying to juggle an infant, two young children and control him.

I impulsively asked if I could hold the baby while she worked with her son, and she gratefully handed the little angel to me. She decided to leave, and I told her I’d carry the baby to the car. As we walked, she thanked me, but I told her thanks were not needed.

From what I remembered from all those sermons sitting in the middle of the church, I thought that was what people are supposed to do, not ignore those in need.

Another week, a  young dad walked in the door with his three children, his 4-year-old sobbing on his shoulder. He abruptly left, two other children in tow, and I figured it wasn’t going to be pretty out there.

I impulsively followed them and asked if I could help. Exasperated, he explained that his daughter said her pants were too hard and she didn’t want to wear them.

My granddaughter feels the same way about some of her pants, I told the little girl. In fact, I told her, I felt the same way about my hard pants. She smiled, her siblings smiled and then Dad smiled.

I’m no saint. Far from it. But I’m thinking my place isn’t on the front row, in a classroom or in the middle of the church. Perhaps my place is in the back with the crying babies, frustrated parents and those, like me, praying we’ll find a home.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.