It has become a goal of mine to accumulate enough stories of my kids' childhood to eventually amass them into a book to give them when they're older. When they would appreciate them. Like at least by age 47 (if I'm still alive then). If I ever do accomplish this, guaranteed that at least half of the stories will be about my son's misbehaviour in church.
I warned my son during prayer before church last night to stop being a pest. He was tickling my ears, sticking a pen in between my arms, almost poking my eyeballs out, just to name a couple of things. So, we eventually took our routine weekly trip downstairs. To the OLD SANCTUARY (for any Mark Lowry fans).
As we were marching to our secret place, he became concerned.
"I'm still a sick boy, remember," he reminded me, because he has been fighting
a seriously debilitating disease a cold, after all.
After giving him two swats on the area where God intended swats to be, he had his cry and we had our chat. After his assurances that he would obey from that moment on (and my managing to refrain from rolling my eyes at these assurances), we left our secret place to go back upstairs. He stopped me at the foot of the stairs to air a concern.
"I don't want anyone in church to see my eyes," he said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because they might think I got a spanking," he answered. Now what would possibly give them that idea? I wondered.
We march up the stairs slowly. As we approach the door to the sanctuary, my son stops to take cover.
And so confirms to anyone who might be watching that he is either playing hide and seek, or is in fact, bothered by the brightness of the sanctuary lights.