The mall teems with people. Cars are vying for spots. It\u2019s one of those days were it may be a better idea to save some cash and head home.<\/p>\n
If I were going to vote on locales where human beings can be their ugliest. A crowded parking lot would have to be in the top ten. However, at this moment, I don\u2019t feel mean and frustrated, just desperate.<\/p>\n
I am with my sister. Not my Chick-fil-A sister cohort, but rather my parking space sister cohort.<\/p>\n
\u201cNightmare,\u201d I say. This too has to be in the top ten, \u2018no spots left,\u2019 responses.<\/p>\n
My sister nods in agreement.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to pray to Sister Bonafice,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cColleeeeeeeeeen,\u201d she says. And there it is again. The familiar, mother induced inflection on the last portion of my name. I succeed to shock, yet another sister.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d I say innocently. \u201cSister Bonafice must have loved to shop. She told the other nuns that when she was gone to pray to her for parking spaces. She always comes through. I used to be a non-believer, but every time my mother-in-law would ask for a space, presto, there one was.\u201d<\/p>\n
My sisters have honed the head shake. I, as the youngest, am the obvious recipient of it. I take it in stride. However, this time I get the shake. I used to think my mother-in-law was nuts. Then when I realized it worked it took me forever to remember the name, \u2018Bonafice.\u201d <\/p>\n
The story is rooted somewhere in the fact that my mother-in-law\u2019s mother had seven sisters who were all nuns. <\/p>\n
I ignore my sister and I ask for the space. I barely get the words out and suddenly, right in front of us, a space begs our attention.<\/p>\n
My sister still isn\u2019t buying it. She\u2019s a tough sell.<\/p>\n
Some time later, we are in church and the priest speaks of Saint Anthony. He says that he asks Tony for everything. That he is always there without fail. That he answers every prayer. <\/p>\n
I look at my sisters after mass. Now I am the one who shakes my head. <\/p>\n
\u201cI told you,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
Father heads our way. He is the priest who is the new pastor at my uncle\u2019s old Parish.<\/p>\n
\u201cI loved your Saint Anthony sermon,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
My sister steps up. I have little warning for the words she is about to speak.<\/p>\n
\u201cColleen prays for parking spots,\u201d she spits out. Then she glances over at me with a smile. It\u2019s like circa 1970\u2019s and she\u2019s just ratted me out to our mother and she waits to reap the rewards.<\/p>\n
\u201cUh, oh,\u201d I say quietly under my breath.<\/p>\n
My chickens are coming home to roost. She\u2019s outed me in front of a priest.<\/p>\n
I look and I wait. I shift my eyes toward her and then him and then him and then her and back again. He simply smiles. After all, he\u2019s a Tony devotee. It seems my new favorite priest is undaunted.<\/p>\n
I am smug with contentment. Once again, reminiscent of our youth. The younger sister who\u2019s gotten away with something.<\/p>\n
We walk towards her car. In a few minutes we pull up to the breakfast place our family is gathering at. I sit quietly in the backseat as we assess the parking situation. <\/p>\n
\u201cYou guys get out and I\u2019ll park the car,\u201d says my sister.<\/p>\n
“Sounds good,” I say.<\/p>\n
For once, this younger sister is smart enough to keep her mouth shut. After all, there\u2019s no mom or priest to help me get away with this one.<\/p>\n
Follow me on Facebook at Colleen Sheehy Orme and on Twitter @colleenorme
\nE-mail: Colleen.Sheehy.Orme@gmail.com<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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