“Giddy-up,” I heard. I looked over next to me. A young woman I’d known since my youngest son’s and her prom date, sat on the pew. She wore a stylish black and white polka dot dress, her legs modestly crossed. Her young daughter in matching attire, had plopped herself on the top of her extended foot.
In my mind’s eye, I flashed to a time long ago. When my renegades were young I passed on Sunday buffets, instead taking them dutifully to church. Well, we didn’t exactly pass on the buffet. Instead we packed it. Little finger foods — Ziplock bags of Cherrios, raisins, dehydrated fruit roll-ups I’d dried from our prolific garden, and stale marshmallows. Still, even with all the choices, they’d chatter. I should have tried spoonfuls of peanut butter. Whispering is not easily accomplished in this family.
Sundays were like arts and crafts day planned by the silent monks. Colored pencils, quiet books containing pages of Bible stories tastefully done in snaps, hooks and eyes, and zippers. Felt pouches held snap-on fig leaves (G-rated). Daniel escaped the lion’s den pouch never to be found again, and five wise prepared virgins were left to fight over four oil lamps.
One Monday morning after surviving the Sunday morning trials of sitting still and feeding upon the words, I contemplated the extent of my faithfulness. Then I remembered the surprise note in the mail. Of course, slightly anal, I extracted the card tucked deep into my Friends folder, “I enjoyed your little ones so much Sunday. It only takes a glimpse to see the fine training and love your children are receiving,” Mrs. Hale, who was confined to a wheelchair, wrote. “I wish I was so I could help you some time, but I want you to know you have the love and respect and prayers of many that you do not know…”
“Giddy-up,” I heard again. Now the renegades are coming on horseback, I thought, to the Sunday buffet of finger foods. Oh, it’s wonderful to be a mom. Just ask the horsey in a black and white polka dotted dress sitting next to me. I need to write a note. It could make a difference.
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It certainly does make a difference. Sometimes Sundays seem like a challenge, as in how quietly can I yell at my kids down the pew. A little note or friendly smile from a grandma who was once a mom and managed to live through it all pushes aside all the questions of doubt and “is it worth it”.
Cute post! Pretty much every week I question why I bother going. My kids have the same “can’t whisper” disease as yours. But thank goodness my mom had her iphone yesterday, that really kept my kids quiet.
loved this post! The epitome of “endure to the end”, don’t you think?