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I ambled toward my usual pew, the one where everyone in church knows that I ALWAYS sit.
If someone has a message for me, she leaves it on my seat. If a congregant returns a book he borrowed from me, he leaves it on my seat. It's MY seat.
But this morning, a lady -- and a regular who knew better at that -- was settled into my seat, relaxed and comfortable as if she always parked there.
I offered a polite nod. She gave a bemused smile. She knew she was in MY seat.
I tried a different spot. The padding bunched differently. The backrest bumped my shoulder blades all wrong. I was on the wrong side of the hymnal rack.
How could I focus on the Sunday school lesson so out of place?
Scripture says that we are all like sheep that have gone astray. But in church, we're like the milk cows in Grandpa's barn.
When Grandpa Cole called them in from the pasture, the bovine brigade all returned to the stanchion or stall that they stood in the day before. And the day before that. And before that.
"Cows always return to the same place," Grandpa said.
Scripture also says that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills.
At church, we're taught that we must be the sheep of the Good Shepherd. Now I wonder if we're more like God's cows, planted on our individual hills, set in our stubborn ways. We aren't mooooving. (You knew that pun was coming, right?)
The sanctity of the Sabbath can turn into terror if a newcomer walks in and -- unknowingly -- sits in Old Fred's seat, the place where he's taken root and rotted since 1982. The wandering sheep have just declared war on the arthritic cattle.
As kids we were lambs, scampering to and fro, from seat to seat, and where we'd land, nobody knew. Every seat was a new adventure, a new view to explore, a different set of grownups to annoy with knock-knock jokes that we couldn't get right.
Then our cattle training began.
Teachers assigned us seats. Bus drivers assigned us seats. Even the lunch ladies could get carried away and assign us seats.
"Aw, c'mon. I sat there yesterday. I want to sit over here today. And tomorrow, Jimmy and I figure we'll hang out back there."
The teacher didn't go for it. She especially wanted to keep Jimmy and me separate.
We were being herded.
Buy a ticket for the football game -- here's your assigned seat.
Book a flight on the airline -- here's your assigned seat.
Road trip with Mom and Dad -- you stay right there, young man, and stop touching your brother.
At weddings, you're assigned which side of the aisle to sit based on to which side you're related. This became a big problem when a cousin on my dad's side married a cousin on my mom's side. They weren't related to each other but I was related to both.
The usher asked, "Bride or groom?"
"Yes. I'll just sit in the aisle between the two sides. Tell Marcella to step over me when the wedding march starts."
Before we realize it, we've become cattle. We've chosen our go-to stanchion, stall, stool or settee, unspoken rules dictate that that's our rightful turf, and we're going to have a real beef with anyone who takes it from us.
Call us bullheaded if you like, but being displaced disrupts everything. One simply cannot serenely munch clover if one's hooves are shuffled off to the wrong chair.
Fortunately, I've reached the age when I am regressing into my second childhood. I simply sat elsewhere and enjoyed a new point of view. I detest being a creature of habit. I crave variety, and I was going to relish this like a bull who's discovered a big new box of grain.
Until the interloper finished her visit with the person who always sits behind me. She moseyed back to the seat where she sits every week.
I quickly reclaimed my carefully contoured portion of the pew. It was good to settle back into my own stanchion of familiarity and comfort.
Moo.
Horn in on Burt's bench at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.