TAKING THE KIDS TO CHURCH

Being with a 7 and 10 year old during LDS church services offers a different set of challenges.

Instead of sitting quietly, there is a lot more movement.

And discussion. Of just about anything, during the time you are trying to be quiet.


And usage of paper.

And pencils.




But some great pictures to take home at the end of services.

And a greater appreciation of what their parents go through every week.

And some good memories.

PREPARING FOR BATTLE

I am accustomed to several things at home on Sundays.

No. 1 - I have someone who almost every week does not want to go to church.

No. 2 - I must leave for church at least 35-40 minutes in advance to get there in time.

and No. 3... well, I can't think of a No. 3 at the moment.

Today?

I had two children who were eager and willing to attend church.

I had a three minute drive to church.

And it was a very relaxing experience being in church and not having to DO anything -

- To not have to be prepared to substitute in Jr. or Sr. Primary

- To be ready to conduct any one of the three hymns in our sacrament meeting

- And mostly to not have to deal with someone who really didn't want to be there.

Instead, I had a granddaughter who drew me several marvelous landscapes of horses and snow and pumpkin patches -- I had a grandson who sat quietly and listened to the testimonies born - I didn't have to do ANYthing in either of the classes I attended other than introduce myself as a visitor.

I think I like Sundays here.

BEING OVERLOOKED

The sacrament is administered every week in our church services. It is usually blessed and passed by one of a multitude of teenage boys with hair in their eyes, pants low on their hips and ties casually unloosened to maintain the 'cool' image.

And the boys learn a carefully orchestrated system of passing the bread and water to the congregation to ensure that everyone present has an opportunity to partake of it if they wish. Going row by row, section by section, and even going out into the foyer for any parents forced to take refuge there with unruly children.

I sit in the front pew, far over to the left, not out of a show of piety, but to keep my good ear turned to whoever is speaking and my bad ear facing the noisy congregation to try to ignore the conversations, murmurs and shrieks of toddlers who really really REALLY want that toy which mommy just put away.

So normally I am the first one offered the bread after our bishopric has some.

This past Sunday, I wasn't.

The young man passing the sacrament walked right past me and went on to the next row. I finally caught one by the elbow as they were finishing up and grabbed a piece of the bread, not feeling particularly spiritually motivated but out of a sense of obligation.

Same thing happened with the water - I had to stop another one of the teenagers, and then halt him again as he immediately began walk away once I had picked up the sacramental cup of water, and actually force him to wait to accept the empty cup back as it was normally orchestrated.


So I sat, considering some things.

Am I that unremarkable? That vanilla, that commonplace? That easy to overlook? Or could it be that someone had 'suggested' that Sis. Wiltfong didn't really 'need' the sacrament, and was a not-so-subtle way to point out my many mistakes, social gaffes and harsh words spoken in haste?

And then I realized that this was pride whispering in my ear. Thinking that I was important enough for an elaborate plan of avoidance to have been devised. Considering myself as an insignificant part of God's kingdom here on earth.

No, it had been two teenage boys, stuffed with bursting hormones, adolescent minds mainly concerned with not tripping over their own feet as they publicly did what we LDSers consider our highest form of worship outside of our temples.

But next week I may wear something brighter.

20/ 20 HINDSIGHT

I hate going to church.

Almost each and every Sunday, I am racing out of the front door at the last possible minute (or on days such as today, 20 minutes later that that), usually wearing whatever was the closest to the door in the closet, having frantically stuffed my two bags with what I think I am going to need in church.

And I tear up our dirt road - me, the resident who is OBSESSIVE about people driving ANY speed on our roads that raise ANY dust, who normally is creeping along at about 8 mph and continually staring at her rear-view mirror to ensure that I am not leaving any sort of cloud behind me - I go hauling truck at about 30 mph, HUGE swirls of tan clouds being kicked up by my tires.

I hit the highway, pressing the speed limit as close as I feel I can (and for me, that's about 3 miles over - I am also compulsive about not driving too fast - why get a speeding ticket, EVER, when all you have to do is drive the allotted amount - and don't mind having drivers continually passing you with angry hand gestures).

I skid into the church parking lot, being forced to park at the far end of the lot (people don't start leaving church until after the sacrament is passed), walk as fast as heels and an A-line skirt will let me, try to slip into the front church pew without attracting attention (yeah, like that's possible), and catch my breath.

And three hours later, without fail, I walk out of church incredibly thankful that I came to church, I was taught, I learned, and I feel hopeful for this coming week.