I love children.
That’s why no one is more surprised and disappointed that I am to discover that I might be getting too old to work in Children's Church.
I haven't done Children's Church in recent years. Our youth pastor and his wife usually do the honors. When they brought home a newborn bundle of their own a few weeks ago, however, they put out the call for some help. The husband and I signed up to take a turn.
And wouldn’t you know it, our assigned Sunday was the day the preschool choir was singing. I stood in the doorway and watched as preschoolers came out of the woodwork for the children’s sermon and sat at the youth pastor's feet.
As he praised God for the high attendance,
I had only one thought.
It was too late to turn back so out the door we went…
power walkers in front,
skippers in the middle,
lollygaggers bringing up the rear with Super Dad.
Down the stairs to children’s church...
We had the usual cast of characters.
The line leaders,
the story tellers,And the Clingons who tabernacle in your arm pit making it difficult to maneuver around the table and help the others cut and paste wee little men to sycamore trees.
That’s the girls…
The boys just busy themselves choosing their weapons. I’m absolutely convinced that four year old boys can not sit beside each other in a craft filled room without becoming musketeers. Firm or floppy, it matters not. If it’s even remotely long and pointy, it becomes the sword of the spirit.
Yesterday, they used these little whale spouts.
Obviously, the story of the day was Jonah and the Whale. We were supposed to help them make a cute little stuffed blue whale that looked like this.
crafting gets complicated
when you’re working with preschoolers.
Add to the mix the unexpectedly large group
and the need to share supplies,
and you find yourself awash in a sea of
one-eyed googly fish.
They say that patience is the first thing to go.
I almost lost mine when I turned to break up a duel and noticed that the third Musketeer was a 49 year old Super Dad who really ought to have known better. I gave him the "Can I have some help here?" look, and he put down his weapon, picked up the glue stick, and began to butterfinger his way around the table helping to glue little fins to pre-painted blue bags.
It was then that he noticed the blue powdery substance covering the bags had traveled from fish to fingers to faces to fabric. Well, great. I surveyed the room full of Smurfs in their Sunday best and got a little sick to my stomach…
When I heard the organ in the sanctuary above us, I realized that the pastor was bringing it to a close. We brushed off hands and faces the best we could and did the mad scramble to match blue whales to their rightful owners. Then Super Dad cleaned debris while I comforted a Clingon Smurfette in my right armpit lamenting the loss of a googly eye.
It was the longest 45 minutes of my life.
In pondering the Great Googly Eye Adventure this morning, I have come to two conclusions:
I’m getting too old for this.
And number two,
I am almost positive that the day before
that King James translator
chose the English wording for the verse
"Suffer the little children to come unto me..."
He had spent a day
in Elizabethan Children's Church.