On Sunday, the day of rest, I clear the dishes away and leave them dirty on the kitchen counter.
“But I don’t want to go to church!” My 3 year old pouts.
“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to”, I say. I hope this is the right thing to say to her. As a believing parent, I would prefer that she liked going to church, but settle for compliance under duress.
I manage to prevent loud and distracting toys from finding their way into the car, get the children buckled in. We file into the pew before the procession has started. My three year old is sitting next to her grandmother. They are quite fond of each other.
A great aunt seated behind us gives a coloring book and markers to us in the pew. The three year old picks them up and begins to color. My fatherly instinct tells me that she needs to learn how to behave in church without distractions. Toys may keep her quiet in the short run but they tell her that church is something to be ignored and that I don’t believe she can control herself without them.
I got the three year old to church without distracting toys, but they were there waiting for us. There is no way to confiscate them without causing a bigger scene and offending a relative. My annoyance at being undermined has to be filed away for now.
My one year old, in his grandmother’s arms, cries out for a few seconds. Bounce him, show him the ceiling fans, I think to myself. Before I manage to say anything, she is halfway up the aisle to the lobby. Training him he gets to leave church when he screams, great.
My three year old almost follows her. I hold her wrist and she leans out into the church aisle. Everything is on a knife’s edge.
“Stay here” I say as sternly and quietly as I can.
I decide to gradually loosen my grip on her, giving her the chance to obey me, or not. She looks at me, then climbs onto the pew, curls up and starts sucking her thumb. Fine. I turn toward the altar, crack open the liturgy book and find my place.
Everything goes more or less fine after that. During the sign of peace, My daughter climbs onto the pew and extends her hands to her great aunt, and others in the row behind us, to the delight of all. She loves sharing peace with everyone.
We line up for communion. My one year old and his grandmother join the line just ahead of us, he’s quiet now. In years gone by, I have shed tears in the communion line over the impossible goodness of Christ and his sacrifice for us.
Nothing so dramatic happens today. I simply reflect on how good it is to be at church with my children. I recognize how fortunate my children and I are to have members of the older generation there with us, in good health, and for us all to be on good terms.
Some days after church, I like to reward my daughter with a stop at the bakery or playground. We can’t today, the one year old has to get home for his nap.
After we return home, the dirty dishes are still piled on the kitchen counter. I breathe in slowly and walk past them to the living room with my children. We pull out the bin of toy cars and they play with them together on the carpet. I lay down for a few minutes, thankful for the day of rest.
I carry the one year old up the stairs for his nap. Downstairs again, I spend the next two hours with my daughter. I read her a few books, and then she asks to color. We eat strawberries and cheese curds together. On any other day, I would have been distracted by the pile of dishes and unable to focus on my little girl. Today, I am somehow able to ignore it for a while and rest, enjoying time with my daughter in the midst of the holy mess.