Our Sunday mornings seem to be predestined for chaos in our McMormon-sized family. Between baptizing four spirit-filled children in the bathtub (where they are dunked and we are sprinkled) and holy rolling them into unstained clothing with buttons, we are usually speaking in tongues by the time we have exorcised tangled heads of hair and have found eight enigmatic shoes. And then it’s a hail mary out of the drive way as we pray no one pukes on our attempt to make it to church on time. Needless to say, by the time we hit the pew, we have plenty of material for repentance.
Last Sunday morning my children were acting particularly un-angelic. The morning began with wailing and gnashing of teeth over everything— breakfast menu options, violations of personal space, and accosted senses of personal identities when Mermaid costumes were deemed inappropriate church attire. There were bad attitudes, fighting, and to top it all off, my youngest decided to stage a potty training protest on our new living room rug. Along with my cup of coffee, my patience had been reheated six times and then finally abandoned as we dashed out the door.
Of course we were late to church and therefore conspicuous members of the tardy parade. The usher led us to a “latecomer” pew, which meant my ill-behaving children would be in precariously close proximity to the pulpit. We awkwardly side-stepped and straddled our way into our seats and one hymn and a half-a-prayer later, I side-stepped and straddled my way back out for a potty “emergency.”
Back in the pew I shushed, I scolded for kicking, and I retrieved crayons from the woman’s hair in front of us. I looked down and realized I had forgotten to change out of my orange crocs before leaving the house. I made my son return money to the offering plate and then I pretended I was not related to the little girl shrieking, “Don’t spank me! Don’t spank me!” as my husband hauled her out of the service over his shoulder.
Suffice it to say, by the time the sermon began, I was not feeling very spiritual. I was sweaty and frustrated and pissed off. I wanted to be on a beach somewhere—alone. I wanted a doughnut and a nap. And I wanted quiet, well behaved kids who smelled nice. Kids like the one’s sitting two pews over from us whose shirts were tucked in and who weren’t trying to color in the hymnals. I wanted the adorable little children from the Bible—the one’s Jesus called into his lap and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” I wanted those children. The well-mannered children with the pure hearts. The little children who wanted to be with Jesus, not the ones like mine who would prefer to watch cartoons on a Sunday morning.
And then somewhere during the sermon, I found myself thinking a little less about myself and a little more about Jesus and how he was a pretty observant guy. I realized Jesus must have spent some time around little children at some point, right? Maybe he had younger brothers or sisters growing up, or nieces and nephews. Maybe he babysat on weekends or helped out in the synagogue nursery. But surely, even just walking around he would have seen children running around. And he had to have known children have a propensity to track in mud, and yell and not come when they are called. He would have known children argue and throw tantrums when they don’t get their way. Which meant—as I sat and thought about it—Jesus knew exactly what he was saying when he said “Let the little children come to me.” Jesus knew when he called for the children that they would fight over who got to sit on his lap, that they would interrupt one another and talk out of turn. He knew they might not all be potty trained and might very well leave a big ‘ol stinky stain on his robe.
Around the closing hymn, while my children snored and drooled on the pew like a heap of sailors after an all night bender, it occurred to me Jesus didn’t just call the well-behaved children who don’t fall asleep in church. He called my children too.
This thought helped me a bit. It kept me from leaving my kids on the church steps with a sign reading “Free to Good Home.” It led me later that evening to open my Bible up to read the entire scenario of Jesus and the children which begins with, “Then the little children were brought to Jesus…” And my heart quickened because I realized there in the Bible were parents just like me—parents who had to get their children up and fed, who had to find sandals and wipe faces and stop for potty breaks and “count to three.” Here were imperfect parents with imperfect children—humble parents flying by the seat of their pants. Parents just trying to get their kids to see Jesus in hopes he would lay hands on them and maybe pray over them so they would sit still or sleep through the night. Parents who had faith—parents in orange crocs operating on a wing and a prayer.
