“Get in the car!” barked my father.  “Mass starts at 9:00 a.m. and it’s important that we get to the church on time!”  

Everyone should attend services on Sundays.  They are holy days meant to take the focus off of the daily grind, to break away from all the stressors of Life and to thank God for all the blessings He has given us.  We express our gratitude, we ask forgiveness for our transgressions and we pray for grace to sustain us through the week to come.  Throughout my childhood, I spent every single Sunday morning in church.  My parents made sure of that!  The entire family, dressed in our Sunday’s finest, occupied the same pew at the same service, Sunday after Sunday, week after week, month after month, year after year.  If my prayer missal was not turned to the correct page, my father quickly shuffled the pages, gruffly shoved the book back to me and pointed to the line and exact word that corresponded to the proper place in the liturgy, admonishing me with his stern scowl for not paying attention.  I attended religious elementary, middle and high schools and studied all the teachings of our faith from Genesis to Revelations.  To say that religion was ingrained in me would be accurate, but to further say that I was devout is a different story altogether . . . until recently.  I have seen the light and have become an avid church-goer.  And I am ALWAYS on time.

Part of my religious education included lessons on the construction of churches and their changing designs over time.  Throughout the ages, Christian churches were constructed in the shape of a Latin cross.  There was the altar in the sanctuary, of course, at the top of the cross and then an intersection by a horizontal transept across the nave, or gathering area for the congregation.  There were confessionals, secondary altars, votive candles available for the devout and penitent, locked collection boxes and icons representing the twelve stations of the cross.  The attic in my parents’ house is a veritable museum housing numerous school project models, dioramas and shadowboxes my siblings and I constructed.  

Not once, however, in my twelve years of religious education was I schooled on the social dynamics of church seating!  Congregants always sit in the same general area, give or take a pew or two!  Why is that?  Why do we stake claim to our territory?  I, myself, typically sit toward the front of the nave, thirteen or fourteen rows back, on the left side of the center, taking the aisle seat.  I even have church-neighbors who have planted their own flags.  We may not know each other’s names, but we expect their presence every Sunday, in their self-claimed areas.  A friend of mine and her husband sit across the center aisle a few rows ahead of mine.  All is right with the world when I see them there.  Two of my other friends sit toward the back of the nave, not together, but in that general neighborhood.  Another friend alternates each week between the front and the back.  Her husband likes to sit in the back and she likes the front; therefore, the compromise.  My church community operates well this way: a place for everyone and everyone in his place  Recently, however, a new worshipper has moved into the neighborhood.  I noticed him immediately.  It was pretty hard not to!  He is young (probably in his early-to-mid 30s), tall, strapping and quite the specimen of masculine magnetism!  “Who is HE?” I’ve asked myself for months now.  “Why does he always come alone?”   “He’s so gorgeous!  I wonder what his story is!”  And so it went until about three months ago.  I asked one of my friends who sits toward the back of the church if she’d ever noticed the hot guy in my neighborhood.  

“Yes!  I watch for him every Sunday!  I make sure to get to church on time so I don’t miss him!” she admitted, “Who IS he?” 

“No idea.  I thought YOU’D know,” I said, not even attempting to hide my disappointment.  “We’ve got to find out!”

”He looks like Jesus!” she noted, pointing out the similarity that the REAL Jesus was in HIS 30s when he caught everyone’s attention. 

Week after week, we Faithful promptly report to church.  Imagine my surprise when, upon taking my silent roll call and checking to see that everyone was in his correct place in his self-assigned neighborhood, Hot Church Guy took his seat right next to me in MY pew!  Right. Next. To. Me!  I stifled a gasp.  In an instant, I was my middle school self, nervous and giddy when in the company of a cute boy.  

I surreptitiously texted my friend who was not able to attend Mass that day.  

 “Boy! Oh boy! Oh BOY!!!  YOU should BE here!!  This is going to be the best Mass in the history of Mass!!!”  

During the homily, the lady in front of me blocked my view of Monsignor, so I wrestled with which way to move so I could pay attention to his sermon!!!

Should I scoot to the left toward Hot Church Guy OR to the right . . . away from him?  

I, of course, did the right thing and moved to the right.  I don’t know why I bothered to scoot anywhere!!  I couldn’t concentrate on one word that was said!  Just being next to Hot Church guy had me undone!  Then it hit me like a Category 5 hurricane!  In just a few minutes during the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer I’d be HOLDING HANDS with Hot Church Guy!!!  

Uh oh!  My hands!  What do I do about my hands?  They’re going to be all sweaty! 

Suddenly a loud THUMP behind me to the right (on the OTHER side of the center aisle) shook me back into the present!  An older lady collapsed to the floor and a couple of physicians in the congregation flew to her aid.  

While the flurry of excitement persisted around that lady, Hot Church Guy struck up a conversation with me while we waited. 

“Oh!” he began, “don’t tell me that’s an Oura ring!  Look!  I’m wearing one, too!”  

Oh my gosh!  He noticed my ring! He’s TALKING to ME!  What do I say?  WHATDOISAY?!

“Is yours set to report your calorie intake or your steps?” he asked.  

 Why did he have to ask me such a hard question?  I couldn’t think.  

 “Uh . . . Um . . . “ I stammered, not really knowing the answer, so I punted, “Steps taken!”

“Oh!” he said, “my Oura reports steps taken, too, but I mainly wear it to remind me to go to bed on time!” 

How do I respond to THAT?  I couldn’t.  I JUST couldn’t!  

The doctors removed the older woman from the church and Mass continued.  Divine Inspiration led me to blow on my hands just prior to the hand-holding, community-building recitation of The Lord’s Prayer, so I was no worse for wear.  

As Mass drew to a close, the lady in front of me wished me a good week.  

“Thank you!” I said, “You have NO IDEA!  It’s already gotten off to the best start possible!”  

Little did she know that no week could ever begin better than by sitting in the pew with Hot Church Guy!  If she only knew!”

Sunday after Sunday, Mass after Mass, it became quite evident that I am not the only churchgoer who has noticed Hot Church Guy.  Come to find out, there are many of us who keep watch over him.  We communicate through knowing glances, smiles and subtle nods.  We know when he arrives, we know in which pew he sits and we particularly take note of anyone who happens to accompany him. Since the service is also live-streamed online, many people attend Mass at home watching on TV.

“Hey!” my phone buzzes an incoming text, “he’s here and he’s got a girl with him!”  

“No WAY!” I reply, “I never even THOUGHT about a girlfriend!  Where is he?” 

Another text from someone at home razzes my phone. 

“Hey!  Where’s Hot Church Guy?  Is he there?  What’s he wearing so I can look for him?  The camera doesn’t have a wide enough angle, so I can’t see the whole church!” 

“That’s YOUR problem,” I reply, “If you’d come to church in person, you’d see him!  But, as long as you’re looking, he’s on the far right in the third or fourth pew from the front . . . he’s wearing a long-sleeved, corduroy shirt . . . Maroon colored, blue denim jeans and black leather biker boots . . . and an Oura ring on his left index finger!” 

As the congregants proceed up the center aisle to receive Communion, all eyes are on the lookout for Hot Church Guy and The Girl.  Glances ping throughout the church from one of us to the other like cell signals bouncing off multiple cell towers or like the ball in the old Atari video game, Pong.  In fact, there is so much going on in the airways it’s a wonder the signals don’t jam up and cause a major power outage!

At last we saw her.  Our eyes locked on our target as we silently assessed her suitability to become the Official Girlfriend.  Needless to say, she failed miserably.  The poor thing was thin (too thin) with long, mousy hair (too long; too mousy), wearing round glasses (too round) and her clothes were drab (too drab) and hung loosely (too loosely)  on her tiny (too tiny) frame.  

We, never even having MET Hot Church Guy, are extremely protective of him and are acting as his silent marriage brokers.  I doubt that ANY woman he brings to Mass will ever get our blessing!  

Last Sunday’s events may be the cause for an extended visit to the confessional.  There I was, minding my own business in my pew, antenna on high alert for the arrival of Hot Church guy, when six nuns filed in and plopped themselves down right alongside of me.  

“Good Morning, Dear,” said Sr. Mary Claire, introducing herself.  “My sisters and I came to this Mass because we wanted to hear the monsignor’s sermon.”  

“Good Morning, Sister,” I replied very respectfully, “you’ll LOVE this Mass.” 

Now I was nervous.  I was sharing a pew with SIX NUNS.  Oh well.  There really was nothing to fear, after all.  I could proceed, business as usual, like every other Sunday.  BUT (and I should have known this from twelve years of Catholic school) nuns have an uncanny sixth sense.  They KNOW things.  NOTHING escapes their finely tuned receptors. 

“Dear,” whispered Sr. Mary Claire, “I’ve been noticing several women darting their eyes toward you.  Is everything o.k.?” 

Holy crap!  NOW WHAT?  Do I tell her what’s really going on or do I lie? 

Everyone who knows me also knows I cannot lie.  I don’t know why, but I just can’t.  It’s a curse.  My nose doesn’t grow like Pinnochio’s, but my speech and mannerisms betray my words.  I HAD to tell the truth!  Sr. Mary Claire would be onto my deceit lickety-split and I couldn’t risk what unknown wrath would befall me when that happened. 

“O.K., Sister,” I sputtered, “here’s the deal . . .” and I proceeded to explain all there was to know about Hot Church Guy, all of our furtive glances and signals and our vehement disapproval of ANY girl who happened to accompany him.  

“Oh my,” she said with a hint of playfulness in her voice, “point him out to me!” 

“No way!  No can do, Sister!  That would be too obvious!  You’re just going to have to wait.  I’ll let you know when it’s cool to look at him!”  

From that point on, it was as if Sister Mary Claire had left the convent and returned to civilian life.  She was now simply Claire (or Mary), canvassing the congregation, watching, waiting and wondering when she’d get a glimpse of our obsession.

“See, Sister?” I risked, “I TOLD you this Mass was a blast.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed, “but I’m going to have to stay for the next Mass!  I haven’t gotten one prayer said during THIS one!” 

I often reminisce about my parents and their commitment to raising my siblings and me to be devoted churchgoers.  I may have taken the scenic route in Life, but I know my father would be so proud to know that now I ALWAYS get to church on time!