Sunday mornings

We are the family who files into church a couple of minutes early, greeting those around us with smiles and hugs. We make our way to some seats, usually in the center section, close to the middle but a bit further back. Our arms are laden with children and bags. Bags that have been carefully packed at home, filled with children's Bibles, notebooks, and a few crayons. My purse contains the snacks and drinks that we'll pull out later, after worship. Daddy ushers in the oldest two, I carry our youngest. Little coats or sweaters are removed and tucked near the bags that have been placed under the chairs in front of us. We purposefully situate the seating: child, daddy, child, mama with child on lap.

During worship we stand, daddy holding one boy, mama holding the other. Our daughter stands on her chair. Voices and hands are raised in praise. Ah, yes. My favorite part, these songs of worship.

The sermon begins and the bag is unpacked. Here, son, here's your Bible. And here's yours, honey. Color crayons? Yes, here. And here's your notebook. Shh. Please whisper, okay? Don't kick the chair in front of you. Please sit still. Turn around and sit on your bum, honey. Legs forward. Sweetheart, don't forget to keep your dress down, okay? Remember to be modest. Shh, shh... quiet. No, no snacks yet. Just wait a bit for those.

Daddy holds a child and some crayons, aiming to keep noise and distraction to a minimum. He motions for drinks. Okay. Here. Please be quiet, buddy. A few moments of peace while drinks are downed. Boys are gazing up at the ceiling vents and lighting, sitting fairly still. Cups are passed, now empty, to mama, who is trying, in vain, to take notes. Yes, I see that. Good coloring, sweetheart. Our youngest points out the animals in his picture Bible and begins offering up their sounds for my approval. Yes, honey. But please remember to whisper. Crayons are dropped, falling into the row behind us, out of reach. They're passed back over a moment later, a grateful whispered thank you from my lips.

I lean over to Mark. Maybe see if this one needs to the bathroom? A little shuffling ensues as daddy gets up and quietly slips out with our second-born. Bibles are set down, mama reaches over to catch them from falling, too, as children wriggle about. Shhh. No, honey. You can't go with. Sit here with mommy. They will be right back.

Back from the bathroom come daddy and son. Time for snacks. I wonder for the millionth time exactly what snack I could bring that would be noiseless. Little fingers are greedily reaching for more. Handfuls now taken, and the snack is spilling onto laps and the floor. Mama bends to still a hand and whisper a reminder: Only take a couple at a time, okay? At this reprimand a pout forms on one child's reddening face. Mama freezes. Please, no. Shh, buddy. But it's too late. Someone does not like to be told no, and he belts out a loud, angry cry. He is whisked up into my arms and hurried down the aisle. I am vaguely aware of the pastors voice and a blur of faces, but VERY aware of this wailing child and my own flushed face. Shh, shh. Quiet, please. I am embarrassed, rushing out. And then, safely out of the sanctuary, through the foyer, and into the bathroom. Child is set down. Mama takes a deep breath. Trying not to discipline in anger. I kneel down, speaking firmly but quietly. Others are in the bathroom, too. My boy? He cries in anticipation of what is coming. It does come, and then it's a sorry and a hug, and a reminder to go back in quietly with mama.

And in again we go, walking quietly, (Lord, may it be invisibly?) back to our seats. Tucked back into the row, near daddy and the other children. Sighing with relief that no one is crying at the moment. My face is surely still flushed. The snacks have disappeared, the pastor is wrapping up. I pick up my journal, glancing at it. The date at the top of the page stares back at me. No notes today.

I might feel better if we weren't so alone in this. To my knowledge no one else in our entire large church has their children sit with them throughout the service. (Why would they, after all? There's a perfectly good children's program right downstairs!) It would be easier to send them there. Our children could be as noisy as they wanted. I might get to hear an entire sermon; to take a full page of notes. Mark and I could sit beside each other and listen without interruption. And we could altogether avoid the stares. And the embarrassment. We could avoid the comments, too: "Children need to run around and get their wiggles out." Or, "This is too long for children to have to sit so still." Then there are those who don't say a word at all but whose thoughts are written upon their frowns. Or those whose faces or voices tell me nothing at all but I wonder, "Just what are they thinking?"

I need to be reminded that it matters not what people think. Our intention; our desire, our responsibility, is to teach our children:

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.

My prayer is that as we sit on Sunday mornings with our children gathered around us, we are indeed teaching them.

We are teaching them how to express their love for God as we reveal how we express our love for God. Sometimes with eyes closed or hands raised. Sometimes with heads bowed in silent prayer, sometimes with voices raised in joyful song.

When there is time given for people to stand who need prayer, I move out of our row to go pray for someone. As I lay a hand upon them, I feel a little hand clasp my own, and I see that my daughter has come, too, to pray.

When there are testimonies shared and baptisms watched and celebrated, we pull our children onto our laps and teach: "Do you remember, honey, what baptism means?" And I tearfully lean over in a whisper to Mark, "Can you imagine them missing this?"

When the offering bag comes by, my children let go of their tightly clenched quarters and drop them in, and they are taught to tithe. Sometimes my daughter also drops in a card she has made especially for Jesus. My eyes well up with tears at the gift, and the certain joy of the recipient.

When communion is given, we bend our heads and whisper: "Do you remember why we take this? This is to remind us of Christ's body, and this, of his blood. Jesus loves you so much, sweetheart, he died for your sins."

When a missionary comes to speak and shares story upon story, I am glad our children are beside us to hear and learn and be moved by these stories of far-off places and of devoted believers giving their lives to share the gospel.

Lest you think they are the only ones being taught, let me assure you: I am being taught, too.

I am given a good lesson in humility as I head to the back with a flushed face and a screaming child.

There are times I sit with tears in my eyes as my daughter raises her hands in praise, singing slightly off key but as loudly as you've ever heard; and I am taught of unabashed love, and I wonder at my own distraction and sometimes cold heart.

And I learn anew as I watch all of these lessons find their way into the hearts of my children.

Like I said, it would be easier to send them downstairs. But then I would miss these things. And they would, too. Where else, if not here, would they get the opportunity to witness these things?

I'll take a screaming child out any day.