For Sarah Sunday School is serious business. She puts us all to shame with her enthusiasm, counting down the days until the beloved Sabbath. If we mention that it is Sunday she scoots right out of her chair, leaving her breakfast to dress herself in Sunday best: pink floral sundress, striped tights, black leather boots and a winter jacket. After dressing she accessorizes, her bible hanging proudly from a jeweled arm, her blondie brown hair ablaze with sparkly clips overlaid by a mint green satin headband. One day she even tried to make it out of the house with my grandmother’s scarf on her head- the virgin Mary recently arriving from a fashionable fifties dinner party.
We literally have the following conversation at some point every day:
“Mom, there is someone who I love more than you.”
“Oh, really? Who could that be?”
“I’ll give you a clue. His name rhymes with Weezus.”
I’m a big fan of an honest, deep and daily walk with God, but I can’t shake the feeling that our habitual conversation about her unfailing commitment to Christ is really just another way she is staking her independence, marking off with pink sidewalk chalk the distance between us.
I know part of her is sincere. She is an honest little woman with a tender spirit. But I am pretty sure there is also a huge piece of her heart that awaits with romantic expectation the crafts planned and the promise of bubble gum for those who sit still and bring their bibles. And church has become a great tool with which to level the playing field between her and her parents. Jason fell victim to her impish fanaticism the other day. He was helping her with her Minnie Mouse pajamas the day after Christmas.
“Dad, what was your favorite Christmas present?”
“Hmmm,” he mused, working through the options. “I really like the North Face jacket Grammy and Papa got me.” He answered. “What about you, Sarah?”
She smiled broadly, smirked and pointed at the sky. Then giggled and walked away.
Gottcha.
No comments:
Post a Comment