Return to church not without some bumps in the road
Our family returned to church last month for the first time since March.
“March?” some of you might be saying. “Big deal. I only go to church on Christmas or if family is in town.”
Ohhhhhhh no. The Dittos are church-going people. The only times I miss church are if I’ve just had a baby, I or one of my kids is sick, or if I’m literally in a moving vehicle driving across the country—and even then, I might throw on a skirt to see if I can find a meetinghouse in whatever town I’m passing through.
So, suffice it to say: we do church. No matter what. Being unable to attend with our congregation (or ward, which is what we call it) for months on end has been surreal and discombobulating. We’ve still held church services at home, which has truly been a lovely experience, but we were all excited when we got the go-ahead to return to a socially-distanced, much shortened version of church.
Up until about two years ago, we went to church for three hours each Sunday (which is akin to running a marathon if you have young children). More recently, it was shortened to two hours. But for our first day back a couple weeks ago, we met for a quick, 45-minute, get-in-get-out mini-service. That was the easy part.
I was definitely out of practice for the rest of the morning: the behind-the-scenes work of getting myself and my kids ready for church. My husband is usually at the church for early meetings, so I’m left alone to face the ordeal of hustling little boys into and out of the bath, throwing something into the crock pot for dinner, and making sure teeth are brushed, ties are tied, and shoes are on. I recruit my teenagers to help, but, you know…they’re teenagers.
This particular Sunday was made even trickier by the fact that my oldest daughter, Lucy, had sewn matching masks and neckties for the leaders of our ward to wear on their first Sunday back, and the elastic ear straps required some last minute, heart-pounding alterations. I felt stress similar to someone defusing a bomb as I sewed miniscule stitches into the straps and watched the clock tick ever closer to the time church was to start, knowing full-well that neither I nor any of my kids was yet out of pajamas.
Finally, with the mask crisis under control, I dashed to my room to try to put together a presentable outfit. It had been a long time since I’d gone anywhere requiring more than the most basic of casual wear, and I’d gotten out of the habit of putting on clothing with waistbands or any real style. All of my usual Sunday dresses now felt like Victorian corsets, and high heels suddenly seemed like torture devices. I couldn’t bring myself to pour my body into the Spanx shapewear that I’ve worn religiously (ha!) since wee baby Hyrum was born almost six years ago.
“People have been toughened by COVID-19,” I reasoned. “They’ve endured much worse over the past six months than seeing my muffin top—I think they can handle it.”
Outfit complete, I thundered out of my room and began the process of herding the kids into the car while making one final round through the house to turn off lights and put away the milk that was inevitably left out after breakfast.
I had made it all the way out to the garage before I remembered the activity book and pack of fruit snacks that would be required to keep one particular five-year-old content during the service. I ran back inside.
“How did I used to do this EVERY SINGLE WEEK?” I wondered as I grabbed the fruit snacks and hustled back out the door.
Twenty minutes later, my husband and I locked eyes as I entered the chapel with the kids, him looking dapper in his matching tie and mask, and me looking like I’d just wrestled a pack of hyenas. He nodded knowingly. I’d paid my dues for the day; bedtime that night would be all on him. In the event of an emergency, he could find me hiding in the pantry with the fruit snacks.