Back in the day when holding a large church meeting was unlikely to stir up trouble with the government, we could actually go to church. It was at one of these meetings, that I had an epiphany in Louisville, Kentucky—and I would have missed it, had my youngest granddaughter not been sitting on my knee. Sometimes it is hard to tell who learns the most from bringing young children to church--the children, or those who bring them.
For us, once a month is Fast Sunday and Testimony Meeting where we gather to take the sacrament and have the opportunity to give an expression of our faith. There is no age restriction on who goes up to the pulpit, no assigned topic, and no script. Adults and children alike, wait their turn to briefly speak. The testimonies are all wonderful -- it's just that some are more wonderful than others. Children often go up and speak on their own; others are prompted or towed by their parents who tell them what to say, sometimes whispering in their ear. While the content of these expressions is evident, what is received by the listeners is not. Those listening with “ears to hear” will get it. They will get it through the distractions, the crying babies, and the flying wet Cheerios.
Nearly two decades ago, we entered a chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. The pews were filled, except for two short rows right upfront. In Idaho Falls, we usually sat closer to the back of the chapel, but those seats were already taken. When the time came for sharing testimonies, I tried to listen as I held Mackenzie, my busy hyperactive two-year-old granddaughter. She actually escaped twice, crawling under the pew in front of us, only to be captured and patiently returned by the 12-year-old deacons sitting right in front of us. As I held her, she was constantly squirming—up and down off my lap, crawling over and under my legs, patting me, and playing with her toys. I was constantly out-maneuvered by my opponent in what became more of a wrestling event than a worship service. As she momentarily sat on my knee, her legs kept moving and I noticed a little girl, a year or so older than Mackenzie, being led to the front by her older sibling. The podium was lowered and the microphone placed at the child’s level. Inwardly, I thought sarcastically, “Oh, this is going to be good.” I was sure that Mackenzie was thoroughly distracted, not getting anything out of the meeting, and would probably not even notice what was going on.
Indeed, Mackenzie did not notice the little girl or the podium adjustment and continued playing with her toys. She seemed lost in her own world of sweet, wiggly two-year-old happiness. However, the instant the child at the podium began to speak, Mackenzie froze and became absolutely still. She was like a dog on point—transfixed and motionless, totally focused on someone from the junior posse speaking from the pulpit. The message from the little girl was clear and brief. When it ended, it was as if a switch in Mackenzie had been turned back on--she returned to a state of perpetual motion, as though nothing had happened. But, in that brief moment, something had happened -- as I held Mackenzie on that Sunday morning long ago.
Ever vigilant,
RT
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