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All week we’ve been planning to attend mass at one of the parishes where our children might be attending school. I was looking forward to church there and just seeing what the community was like. We had already been there to meet with the principal, but just in case, I had written down the address on a sheet of paper earlier this morning.

Which I left behind in the hotel room.

I told Dan, “I think it’s 322 West. I’m not sure of the number, though. We’ll just plug it in (to the GPS) and go from there. If the number isn’t right, we’ll still find it.”

So, instead of trying to find the church based on how we’d gotten there before, we simply followed the directions given to us by the lovely woman inside the GPS machine. And our kids (who love to repeat every direction given).

We went along merrily, but quickly, as mass started at 9 and the GPS showed us arriving at that exact time. (It’s a Sunday ritual. No matter what time we have everyone ready, we’re always running late.)

Nothing looked familiar, but we had the GPS. As we drew closer to our destination, Dan missed a turn. “Recalculating,” said the woman. “Recalculating!” yelled Maria from the back of the van. New directions were given, but Dan turned around instead. “Recalculating,” said the woman. “Recalculating!” yelled Maria. Dan again passed up the original turn, because there was a no-left-turn sign. “Recalculating,” said the woman. “Recalculating!” yelled Maria.

I started to laugh. We got situated, though, and finally, we arrived at our destination. Which wasn’t a church. It was a house. In a neighborhood we’d never seen before.

I laughed harder. This time so hard that tears were forming. “Let’s see if the GPS has churches,” I suggested, once I caught my breath.

Sure enough, the GPS listed places of worship. But, none of them indicated the religion associated with them. Being Catholic has it’s benefits. I saw a St. Joseph’s on the list and knew it had to be Catholic. “Let’s try that,” I said.

The GPS got us on our way once again and I hoped, as we drove, that mass at St. Joseph’s began at 9:30. We followed the directions the woman gave us…

And found the road ahead of us closed.

The laughter bubbled up again and I didn’t know that I’d be able to stop this time.

Dan found an alternate route, but the GPS lady didn’t like it. She kept trying to get us to “turn right, then turn left.” So did Jack and Maria.

Finally, we found the church. The lot was packed, which meant mass was probably in full swing. “Maybe it just started,” I told Dan. “Let’s get out. If it started at 9, we’re only 15 minutes late.” We trudged across the lot, herding our four children. As we approached the church, I looked for mass times. I didn’t see any posted, but I did see several signs for things regarding the parish school and one asking people to turn off their cell phones before entering the church. All of the signs posted, I noticed, were in English and Spanish.

“I hope this isn’t a Spanish mass,” I told Dan as he pulled open the door.

Sure enough, it was. And we were definitely late. The homily (which I’m sure was a good one) was in full swing.

I tried to pull myself together enough to at least pretend I could understand what the priest was saying. And, hey - I did pick out a few words I knew. I was in the middle of praying that God would understand our predicament this morning and let this count for mass when Dan mumbled something and left with the three oldest kids.

Great. I didn’t really want to stand in the back of the church struggling with Sam all by myself. I mean, every time I told him to be quiet everyone turned to look to see who was speaking in English.

Sam and I made our exit, too. We caught up with the others and headed to the car. “They knew more Spanish than us,” Jack said. “Yes,” I told him. (I was actually proud that he recognized what language had been spoken. He took Spanish in school last year and that’s one class I’m disappointed he won’t get at the new school.)

Having given up, we told the GPS lady we wanted to go home.

When we got back to the room, I checked the pad I had written the address on. It said 322 West MAPLE on it.

Ooops.