Angels and Demons?

While logic dictates that our Sunday morning routines should be calm and relaxed, toddlerhood dictates otherwise.  Instead of a quiet, slow morning, our day of rest usually begins with a mad rush to make it to the early morning mass on time.  This is a habit we're just easing into -- the early mass, with the whole family -- and we're not very good at it.

The kids have probably been up a little later than usual the night before, making them either cranky or late to wake.  The parents have also probably been up later than usual the night before, and are arguing about who should have to go make breakfast and who should get to sleep for 20 more minutes.  This argument usually ends up in both parents getting up later than is conducive to arriving places on time. 

There's a tiny baggie of snacks to be packed, a tiny, a silent pair of church toys to be found, two tiny dresses to be negotiated over and donned by two tiny little girls.  Four piggy-tails to be bound, four squishy feet to be shod, four people to be corralled out the front door, and probably four minutes in which to accomplish all of these tasks.  I know our family is relatively small, and we should have all this under control, but we don't.  These things take time, right?

Last weekend, though, everything seemed to be going more smoothly than normal.  It was like we were finally catching the Sunday Morning Groove -- everyone was happily dressed, fed, and awake, and we were barely running late.  Success.

We hauled ourselves across the far side of the church parking lot, accompanied by a few fellow late-comers, and squeezed into an empty pew, hopefully causing a minimum of distractions.  The girls were more well-behaved than usual.  They sat somewhat still, fairly quietly entertaining themselves through readings and songs, while Justin and I eyed each other in disbelief.  It was amazing how little squirming and bickering there was.  It was fantastic how few outbursts were made.  It was wonderful how the quiet room was not visited once, and we all stayed together for the entire service. 

We made it all the way through the homily with no incidents or disturbances.

Before our luck ran out.

Sometime after the homily and before the Eucharist -- I don't know exactly, because things all started looking fuzzy around then -- it all went wrong.  Mia had finally started to get antsy, and was bouncing up and down as we stood.  I bent down when she paused, put my face to the top of her head, and started to whisper something about being still.

Which is when Mia jumped up again. 

The top of her head banged into the front of my face, and I saw a universe of stars.  My nose felt broken, my cheekbone felt swollen and my eyes were tearing up quickly.  I sat down with my hands covering my face, while Mia whispered over and over, "I'm sorry, Mama! I'm sorry!"  I nodded as best I could while trying not to cry over a little bit of pain.  I was sure my nose was starting to bleed, but I wasn't sure what to do about it.  The collision had knocked me silly.

Meanwhile, Justin assumed I was overcome with some sort of spiritual emotion. 

After a few minutes of composure-gaining, I could stand back up again, wiping my nose as discreetly as possible.  There was no blood, which made me feel like a great, sobbing wimp -- could I not withstand ANY amount of pain without assuming I was about to DIE?  Nevertheless, it had hurt, and I was still dizzy from it. 

The mass went on without any notice of my plight, which struck me as odd.  Shouldn't angels have descended to care for a (not quite) broken nose?  And if angels were going to be filling the sanctuary, surely the mass would have paused in reverence to witness the healing that was about to take place?  And if a healing were about to take place, wouldn't it be possible for my sniveling, red face to be beatifically transformed into a more presentable one?

Either way, nothing happened.  The girls kept getting more and more antsy as the sacraments were blessed and offered, but it was still better behavior than we've been used to.  My face stopped throbbing so conspicuously, and the mass was nearly over.  We stood to sing the final hymn, happy with our relatively peaceful morning.

Which is when Mia pulled down the kneeling bench.

The full force of the pew-length kneeling bench -- the old, heavy kneeling bench -- came down on top of my tiny middle toe.  My strappy sandals provided exactly NO protection from the wooden leg's fall, and I squeaked a tortured squeak.  My foot instinctively curled itself around my uninjured leg, and again, I sat.  I rocked a little bit.  Tears pooled in my eyes for the second time that morning, and I peeked at Justin. 

This time, he knew what had happened, because it had happened to him, too.  On the far end of the pew, the kneeling bench had also landed on his toes, but through the thick, sturdy leather of his dress shoe.  Still, his jaw was clenched in a show of manly pain management. 

If I'd expected angels before, to heal my wounds, now I was expecting demons, giggling at the torture they'd inflicted in such a short amount of time, and through such innocent means.

Mass had ended, and we tried to go in peace. 

Me peacefully limping; Justin peacefully chuckling at my face-crashing, toe-smashing morning; Mia and Lauren peacefully chewing on the candy from Father.

And the angels peacefully enjoying a quiet, non-interventionist morning.