Weighing my Words

This morning I was running late for church. It seems like a common Sunday morning problem. In the rush to get there on time, we can end up arriving emotionally spent. It wasn't THAT bad, this morning. In fact, I was slightly amused with why we were late.

I had both little boys dressed and as we headed to the door to the garage (where our mass shoe pile is located), YS happened to notice what MS was wearing. I was surprised MS had merely put the outfit on without complaining (normally, when I choose something for him he is very vocal about what he wants to wear). It was an old shirt from one of ES's first CBLI encampments. It is one of my favorite shirts, but lacking any popular character appeal, I expected it to be vetoed. It is a bright orange t-shirt with a sign on the front reading "God at Work" and bold letters in the back stating "Person in Progress."

I smiled just thinking about ES, that shirt and that camp. The program focused on construction and each child was given a hard hat and a time card to punch in when they arrived for their daily classes. They were able to drive child-size construction vehicles. It was a fabulous program (as all of the programs were, when my brother and sister-in-law were part of the planning process) and we've received tons of comments on that particular shirt.

For some reason, the minute YS laid eyes on it, he began to covet the entire outfit. Now, I'm not a big stickler on dress or appearance. I don't often dictate what they wear and I very seldom believe that clothes are a worthwhile issue to tango over. So, I turned the issue over to the two boys. I indicated that it was MS's decision. If he didn't mind going to find something else quickly, then YS could wear the size 4 outfit I had given to MS. To the benefit of our emotional state, MS agreed, but it did require extra time we didn't have.

Thus, by the time we were out the door, it was clear that we would enter the sanctuary five minutes or so after the service started (unless everyone else happened to be squabbling over clothes as well and the service started late). It is a 25 minute drive to church and this gives me time to ramble off in thought (if the little boys are quiet enough in the background).

This morning, I began to think about the service. I wondered if there would be any word on ES and the music camp he is attending (he left yesterday morning and surprised me when he, again, allowed me to hug and kiss him before he hopped in the van with all the other campers). I wondered how my little boys would behave, given the fact that their older brother wouldn't be there to help tame them, if necessary. I wondered if anyone would be available to take the boys out of the sanctuary during the sermon portion of the service (usually, it is the corps officer's son or daughter, but sometimes they aren't there).

Next, I began to brace myself for the ritualistic conversation that often takes place for me on a Sunday morning. There is an elderly woman who sits towards the back and every time I enter by myself or with my boys, she asks after my husband. I know she means well.

I realize that she is not the only one voicing such thoughts. Indeed, one of our first Sundays after we moved here, my ES and I attended a large Baptist church. We expected to arrive and attend a service, but quickly learned that the times had changed and we could only make the second Sunday School hour. Foolishly, I sent ES off with some individual offering to show him to his class (he looked like a deer in the headlights). I then, located an adult class which happened to be the marriage enrichment class.

It was hard enough to attend that class by myself (especially since I was clearly pregnant at the time). Several individuals made it harder still. They went beyond asking about my husband and began to make comments like "We look forward to seeing YOUR HUSBAND here with you, next time." (And, I think that time, I even had a legitimate excuse ... he was home with our sick MS.)

The humorous side-note to this little story is that the Sunday School teacher for ES's class would not allow him to leave. Their rule happened to be that the parent must pick the child up and we had made plans to meet by the large NASCAR sign at the back of the sanctuary. There were literally three cars in the parking lot when he and his teacher finally arrived at our designated spot. ES swore he would never attend that church again. HA!

Anyway, I'm used to this issue popping up. What I never seem to understand is what the other individuals hope to accomplish or expect me to accomplish. Do they think that I am responsible for my husband's choices? Do they think, by asking ME, that somehow he will feel the weight of their concern? Are they merely voicing a sentiment that I deeply share regarding the value and benefit of a family worshiping together?

As a pastor's child, who grew up spending most days in the Lord's house for one reason or another, I often experience deep regrets over the fact that my children are not experiencing the same spiritual nurture and instruction that I received. I do what I can to meet their spiritual needs, but realize how much I fall short. And, I should clarify, as well, that I have neglected to attend church regularly, also. Indeed, I am, part and parcel of the problem.

However, I have no control over what my husband decides to spend his time doing on a Sunday morning. And, I spent most of this morning's drive trying to determine what the best response would be. I tossed out several possible options. 1) Sarcasm: "I THOUGHT I was driving off without something ... you know how hectic it gets on a Sunday morning, getting out the door with small children." 2) Deflection: "It's nice to see you, too!" 3) Humor: "By Sunday morning, he really doesn't enjoy being around me." 4) Arrogance: "What are we going to do about THAT man? He's probably going to rot in hell."

Of course, I didn't really want to make the person squirm (even if I sometimes squirm under the weight of the question). I decided the truth would be the best bet (without necessarily identifying his true location). I decided that I would merely reply with "It is a shame he couldn't be here. I'll let him know you asked after him."

You know, already, what happened, don't you? After spending 15 minutes contemplating the scenario, it never even played out because the elderly woman wasn't even there. I don't know who I should ask about that? She's not married, so I can't approach her spouse!

Not one person pigeon-holed me about my husband's whereabouts. I did receive a few nice comments about YS's shirt, though.

And, I must add here, a cute little dialogue which took place during the service. At offering time I handed each of the boys a crisp dollar bill.

YS and MS: "Can we keep it? Can we keep it?"

Me: "We're going to give it back to God, because he gave us everything we have."

YS, looking down and noticing Washington's face, said with wonder, "Look, it's ME!"

MS also was checking out Washington and he quipped, "Mom, what does God look like?"

So, today I am thankful for that adorable shirt, even if it made us late. I'm thankful for a chance to worship, even if I sometimes have to field difficult questions. I'm thankful for my children, who keep church services fresh, even if they sometimes squirm and fidget. And, thankfully, God, unlike Washington, looks forgiving!