Hiding in plain sight
Are We There Yet? • LORI CLINCH
Contrary to popular belief, I don't like being center of attention. I like to duck into the back, blend with the crowd and mesh into the background.

This is especially true when entering a church service once it has started. If it were up to me and me alone, the Clinch family would be the first to arrive at Mass. We would be there when the pews are still empty and perhaps long before the first song.

Despite my attempts to get the clan there in advance, the Clinches are often rolling in at the last minute. It could just be my imagination, but I'm often sure that each parishioner notices our tardiness as we step into the cathedral and a spotlight falls from the sky, centers on my head and follows me to the pew.

This rings true even when we're out of town. Take a recent weekend, for instance, when we thought we might visit our eldest son who is busily seeking a college education miles away from his mother.

Just for fun, we thought we might pay him a visit, catch up on things and perhaps meet him at Mass — just to be sure he's actually attending, you understand.

We walked in as the opening hymn was finishing up and time was of the essence. Vernon had told me that he'd meet me on the left side of the sanctuary and down toward the front.

Like a woman on a mission, I led my crew toward our destination. Walking swiftly in hopes of entering a pew before the crowd was seated, I scanned the horizon for Vernon who simply was not there. Naturally, the whole left side of the sanctuary was elbow to elbow with no space for a large group such as ours.

Then I spotted it, an open area. There were two pews, one behind the other with room for three to four people in each. I marched toward it, climbed into the first one and motioned to the remainder of the family to be seated directly behind me.

I didn't notice until I went to smile at the fellow parishioners that the group we had joined was not only staring at us curiously, but that they were all wearing robes.

With a dry mouth and a lump in my throat, I leaned over and whispered to the lady next to me, "Did we just sit with the choir?"

"Yes," she answered back. Although she was smiling sweetly, some of her fellow choir members didn't seem to be too amused.

I looked around for another place to sit. Should we walk back through the crowd and stand at the back? If we arose, would the people in the center aisle scoot to the middle and make room? Or would now be as good of a time as any to pack up the family and relocate into a witness protection program?

"Uh," my Huey whispered in my ear, "you just sat us with the choir."

"I know," I answered as I felt my face go flush.

"Can we move?"

"Not without making a scene."

"Everyone's staring." I turned to look and I'll be dogged if the whole congregation wasn't gazing upon us with smiles and smirks and an occasional look of disgust. It was then that I noticed that although I was seated with three of our four boys and two of their friends, my husband wasn't with us. No sir, he had found himself a single seat and had nestled comfortably in the back row and out of the spotlight.

As the choir resonated the Responsorial Psalm and harmonized the hymns, the Clinches sat in their midst. As their vocals rang throughout the sanctuary, my clan and I squirmed in our seats and when they rose to sing out their hallelujahs, I buried my face in my coat as the children pretended to pick lint off their slacks.

We sat with the choir, took communion with the choir and stuck out like sore thumbs in the midst of the cloaked assemblage.

When Mass was over, the boys and I had great hopes of crawling to a side door and slipping out unnoticed.

Just then Vernon, our college son, appeared out of nowhere and laughed himself sick as he said, "Well, that had to make your Top 10 list of most embarrassing moments."

"Oh, I know!" I responded with sarcasm. "We sat with the tenors and your brother is obviously a baritone."

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.