Posts Tagged ‘church’

I shudder at being this honest and will likely bury my head in a sleeping bag once I’m done here and resurface some time in March, but the truth is, our house has been a magnet for friction on Sunday mornings.  That we’re bustling over breakfast and trying to funnel partially dressed children to the van, children who woke up with an agenda of their own and who have the whines to prove it, is all part of the irony, I suppose.  We’re headed to church.  Which is also why as we back out of the garage, one of us, runs back inside for a Bible, and back in again for a pen, and one more time for a coat for the kid who thought he was warm enough in thirty degrees and snow without one. 

Uh…God help us.  We be needin’ it right here in the driveway.

Then call it a ‘Miracle on 192nd Street’ but as fast or slow as I could mutter my thankfulness for anything, to include the kid with mustard on his shirt who wore matching boots, I’ll be darn if Sunday didn’t suddenly have a different hue.  A lesser shade of gray…heh.

Thank you, God…

for rescuing me…and, well…saving me from myself.



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I still don’t know where the ink pad came from.  Or why mere minutes before leaving  for church my son would quietly indulge in stamping his hands in pink ink, such that when we found him, there wasn’t much of him unpink.  There wasn’t much of the house unpink either. 

And since it seemed that the only wise thing to do was to put one of us in time-out, I had him sit down for a tad on the bottom stair to think things over while I got a grip on the damage.  Only he didn’t just sit there.  He arched backwards, fiddled with the scarecrow on the banister, and slipped his feet into a pair of my flip flops.  Then figuring he’d been there long enough, he started to sob.   Into his hands.  Which made him look as though he’d just survived an epidemic.  But barely. 


Then despite scrubbing him with baking soda, elbow grease and a hand towel, the pink ink stayed put.  Which didn’t come in so handy with Halloween past.  And which prompted six or seven allergy questions at church from six or seven different people all wondering one thing:  what the heck happended to your kid?

As evidenced here, he’s awfully repentant. And likely to never do this again. (ahem…trying not to choke here).  In the same day. 

Here’s his after-church answer to, “can I take your picture?”   I took it as a ‘yes.’

And then because I’m his mommy and because he’s my boy and because he says he loves me ‘this much’ which is a whole bunch, if you look at the span of those legs, we drove home happier than clams.

Just me and  my two normal kids.

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The Laugh to Die For

My husband gave the fake foot-stamp like he might bolt from his chair after our son whose bare bottom was wagging in the doorway.  Which was enough.  Our son squealed his way to the kitchen.  But returned quickly with his chest still rising and falling fast and his eyes dancing in anticipation.  By which time my husband pounced on his ribs and tickled him right up the stairs.

Only I don’t know the words for that kind of laughter, as it’s the kind that surpasses what you thought was funny.  The kind that even sounds different.  Like you’re in a higher gear, a higher pitch, and there ain’t no stopping until you’re all laughed out.  It’s the laugh you want to free in church, only you can’t.  Cause it’s church.  The kind of laugh that has you thinking you just might die from a split side.  The real deal.  That laugh.

Which was what my kid was doin’ upstairs.  Bustin’ his sides with his dad. 

Then before coming down the stairs my husband said, “Sleep well, Silas.  I’ll most certainly tickle you in the morning.”  And our son raised his head off his pillow, “No, dad, no!”   “Oh yes,” my husband countered.  And then he waited in the hallway for the sure signs of tiny feet.

But they didn’t come.

Instead there was giggling as a little boy whispered with certainty to himself, “my dad’s gonna tickle me in the morning!”

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