Children’s Church didn’t exist when I was young.
We sat in “big church”—first on our mothers’ laps and then on our own bottoms.
Learning how to behave in church was as much a part of our development as learning how to drink from a cup or make rabbit-ear ties with our shoelaces.
When services started, each of us began our inner struggle to tame the giggling/whispering monster that bubbled just beneath the scabbed skin of every kid who ever sat on a wooden pew.
Apart from the usual singing and preaching, nothing big ever happened in big church.
Head scratching. Nose blowing. Stuff like that.
But those things were all hugely interesting. And eternally hilarious.
If somebody dropped a hymnal, we poked each other with our razor-sharp elbows and rolled devilish eyes.
One of us inevitably mimicked the drop; he’d plead butter-fingered innocence and feign penitence.
Song lyrics took on giggly variations. “Bringing in the Sheaves” became “Bringing in the Sheets.”
“Toiling On” was (and in my mind, continues to be, shamefully) “Toilet On.”
We belted out mangled renditions with an insincere gusto that always tipped off the moms around us.
Demonic stares flew from parents’ faces whose voices simultaneously (and we thought, hypocritically) sang angelic songs.
Nobody was safe from our search for entertainment.
Pianist to preacher — we listened very closely for a wrong plink or a stutter.
Our rapt attention gained approval from our moms.
They patted our bony knees and passed out sticks of Juicy Fruit gum.
But the first time we snorted at something, Mom turned our way and conveyed utter dismay at our lack of reverence.
We knew she would have ripped the gum from between our grinning lips if she could have done so without disruption.
Prayer was a free-for-all. Nobody was watching.
We could make faces, pick noses, and grab toys from toddlers without detection.
This was the perfect time to discard our flavorless gum in places we’d only confess to God.
When invitation time came, we jumped to our feet while older bodies creaked and popped to stand for the final song.
Moms reached behind their flouncy dresses — unconsciously and in unison — to free the material that had molded against their ample bottoms.
As we sang, we prayed no one would step into the aisle and toward the altar.
That meant even more verses. But grownups loved this.
It was, we thought, a joke on us. We were sure they chuckled as we sang on.
If they weren’t so old, they would have elbowed each other and smirked as we held our Sunday-dinner growling stomachs and prayed for parole.
The most long-winded deacon always intoned the closing prayer, thanking God for EVERY blessing EVER given to ANY human on the planet.
At “AMEN,”’ we bolted for the door, squirmed through the hand-shaking line, and flew to freedom.
We had sat (mostly) still, had listened (a little), and learned (slowly) how to behave in ‘big church.’
They were lessons as important as the sermon, and ones we should consider teaching our own kids.
