Church, an endurance sport

October 18, 2014

There we sat last Sunday, my hair pasted to my head in a tight braid that I’d hastily pulled together after rushing out of the shower, my husband needing a shave and the baby with dried snot on his face.

Only our older son looked presentable. He’s reached an age where he’s conscious of how he looks.

But I knew that under his pants his knees were still black from his soccer game the day before. He’d informed me that showers are not for Saturdays. Okay then.

We showed up ten minutes late, pleased that we’d made it at all.

We remembered the offering check, the crayons, the tissues, and the toddler’s toy trucks. But we forgot Bob.

‘Bob’ is the toddler’s sippy cup of milk. He’s also a part of our family.

We settled in a pew at the back with the boys between us. The toddler played quietly with his trucks and the eight-year-old followed along with the hymn.

I felt a swell of pride. I said a quiet prayer of thanksgiving for my beautiful family.

When will I learn? It is at these moments, when I let my guard down, that all heck breaks loose.

The toddler started driving his trucks, one by one, off the edge of the pew. They landed on the floor with a clatter.

The noise embarrassed the self-conscious eight-year-old, who responded by grabbing the truck from the toddler’s hand.

This incited an inevitable loud exclamation of, “Mine!”

The bell choir assembled. When the music started, the toddler hollered an appreciative, “Pretty!” 

His brother buried his face in his hands.

The toddler repeated in an increasingly louder voice, “Mommy! Pretty!”

I gave him an approving nod and whispered, “Yes, very pretty.”

Satisfied with my response, he resumed dropping his trucks on the floor.  

His brother sat on as many trucks as he could fit under his thighs. I began hissing threats into his ear, demanding that he stop picking on his brother.

He stared straight ahead, slowly releasing one truck at a time at a speed that was unsatisfactory to the toddler.

I separated them, pulling the older boy out of his seat and plopping him down on my other side.

Too late.  The damage had been done. The toddler could only be consoled by one thing.

Bob the sippy cup.

I carried him out during the sermon yelping, “Bob! Home!”

He was happy enough when I situated him in his usual chair in the nursery.

I reentered the sanctuary feeling dangerously satisfied.

Within ten minutes, we heard a familiar wail. “Your turn,” I whispered to my husband.

He looked stressed. “But he likes you more lately!”

And so I scurried off to relieve the anxious nursery attendant.

Fortunately, service was nearly over. We swayed to the closing hymn at the back of the church, all while the toddler announced loudly and repeatedly to anyone who would listen:

“I cried. Scared. Mommy. Church.”

Which translates to, “I cried because I was scared when mommy went back to church without me.”

These days, church is an endurance sport.

This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus and the Sidney (Mont.) Herald on October 18, 2014.