Why, yes, that is a log in my eye

I've been going to church for, like, my whole life now, but I'm not getting any better at it.

It's not church's fault, of course. It's just that there are so many other people there messing up my holy experience.

My entire family manages to get out of the house early on other days, but on Sundays we act like we've never done it before. In fact, I've written before about how a visit to church is an opportunity for all seven deadly sins to pop up. I sin all the other days of the week, but shouldn't I do it less, not more, at church? God is REALLY watching me on Sunday, right? Shouldn't I be at my best while I'm in His house?

I think God's onto me.

The main thing working against me on Sunday, besides pride and judgment, is that I don't deal well with crowds. My church is really big and has a lot of people trying to get to different places in a hurry. It wasn't always that way. It had a beautiful, normal-sized sanctuary when I started going there in 1991, but it has grown tremendously over the past two decades because it is so awesome and so many other people want to attend. My husband started going there in 1978 as an eighth-grader, and it's where we want our boys to grow up, too.

I just hope the church experience doesn't kill me before I get to see that happen.

The breakdown begins before we even arrive. With so many faithful followers, our church naturally has parking "issues." To relieve some of those issues, they implemented a shuttle bus to ferry people to and from an empty office parking lot across the street.

My family used to ride the shuttle bus, but I'll tell you the truth. I shied away from the shuttle because those folks were just too damn cheerful for Sunday morning. Am I the only one who finds it hard to be sweet after an exhausting car ride spent convincing 13-year-olds that, no, they are not the only boys on earth who have to wear long pants and a collared shirt to church?

Maybe it's also the fact that my body is two decades older, too, but some mornings before we're even done with church, I am worn out. After we forgo the shuttle and park a quarter-mile away, we get upstairs to the balcony, where we like to sit so our 6-year-old can see everything. We used to choose our seat according to whatever activity we needed to watch our kids doing, whether they were acolyting or singing in the choir. Lately, however, a new factor has come into play: the overly fragranced parishioner.

If I didn't already have a headache after the drive to church, I will have one after sitting near a woman who has on too much perfume. It doesn't matter if I'm in front of, next to or behind her, that overwhelming smell will keep me from focusing on the "Our Father" no matter how hard I try.

All I can do is watch carefully next week and hope she heads the other way. But then I'm judging again, right? In church! Zap!

Still, you never know who's going to overdo the Estee Lauder on any given Sunday.

Other worship service regulars who mess with my holiness include the Toddler who Colors Very Vigorously. And you thought coloring was a quiet activity! It always enhances prayer time when mom stores the crayons in a metal box or a Velcro pouch.

Some men in my church have begun letting their Sunday clothes speak for them, especially in the fall. When their favorite college football team wins the day before, they'll wear the school logo or colors to church the next day. Now, I don't have a problem with a tie that has little tigers or even tiny gators on it. But if you're 54 years old and you wear a crimson Alabama T-shirt to church under your suit jacket, I think you're violating, like, the whole book of Matthew. We're supposed to be praising God, not Nick Saban.

Zap!!

After we stand up and sit down 27 times in the service, with all the "singing" of songs I still don't know because I can't read music, we have to run our 6-year-old down two flights of stairs to his Sunday school class and then find our own class on another floor, with a possible trip to the cavernous youth area downstairs. In heels. When that's over, it's time to head to the back of the parking lot to our car. That's all before 11 a.m.

Whew!

I'm not the only one still seeking peace in the sanctuary. Last week I ran into a friend in the hallway, and she had such an exasperated look on her face, I asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," she huffed. "You will not believe what I just saw."

She had just left the casual service that has praise music with a band, which I can't stand, but that's another post for another day. My friend is not a complainer, though, so I was really concerned about what got her riled up.

"We were praying, during the final benediction, and I kept hearing someone talking. I looked over, and this woman was standing in front of the stained glass window talking on her cell phone! During the prayer! She was trying to cover the mouthpiece to keep it quiet, but I kept thinking, 'There's a door right there! Why don't you just step out?!'"

No, nothing is sacred anymore.

Really, I love my church. Besides the whole eternal salvation thing, I love sitting close to my family in the pews, because I can't make my older boys sit next to me any other day of the week. I love seeing my kindergartner recite "Our Father" by heart. I love looking down at the choir and seeing my friends' babies, who somehow along the way grew up and drove themselves there. I feel for the ministers, who do this three times on Sunday and once on Saturday night.

The fact that I can't turn off my powers of observation when I'm there is my problem.

So, why do it, you ask? If it's so stressful, why not go to a smaller church, if a big church is "not for you"?

With my luck, I'd find a small church where the membership was just my family plus Mr. Alabama Fan, Mrs. Estee Lauder and their children, Miss Vigorous Colorer and Little Pew Kicker.

And me, Church Lady in Training.