Expectations {it happened on a sunday} Day 3

My first memory of Sunday occurred in the Free Methodist church of my early childhood.  We arrived as a family, my sister and I often dressed in matching or coordinating dresses, complete with slips, panty hose, matching barrettes, and the itchy lace collars I still have nightmares about.  Not exactly comfortable clothes to wear in the Texas heat.

To me, the church seemed like a giant playground, with its many staircases and bright red carpet, the stained glass windows casting kaleidoscopes across the wooden pews.  But the expectation, from a very young age, was that I would sit quietly with my parents, sing the words to the hymns that were played and listen attentively whenever the pastor spoke.  I longed to return to the nursery classrooms down the hall, with their open windows and smiling teachers, toys and crayons and games that let us move around.

So I sat in the hard pew with the seams of my dress irritating my skin, and I thought up a plan.  I could leave the sanctuary for one of two reasons: to get a drink of water or use the restroom.  I whispered to my dad that I needed to go, and he nodded his assent while continuing to follow the pastor's sermon.  Delighted, I skipped down the aisle and passed the bathrooms, entering the nursery in less than a minute.  My old teachers welcomed me in, serving animal crackers on an unfolded napkin and inviting me to join the younger children in their play.

Freedom!  If I had to itch and sweat, at least I could move and make noise and play with other kids.  I don't know how long I got to enjoy my breakout, but I do remember the frowning face of my dad appearing in the door, and his insistence that I return to the sanctuary with my family.  I followed him out with the clear mindset that this was not over, not by a long shot.

Now, here's where my childish memories fail me.  I was never very good at noting the passage of time, or marking days and weeks.  I don't know how often I pulled this sneak out routine, if it was several times on one Sunday, or if it was done week after week.  I do know that I tried it more than once, and every time I sat in the sanctuary, I tried to imagine what was happening down the hall.  I wanted to stay there, to play and sing songs about Father Abraham and Noah and the arky-arky.  But there was an expectation that I had reached an age where stillness, listening, and learning were to be prized over movement and fun.

What I remember most, almost three decades later, are the smiles of the nursery volunteers.  People who were happy to see me, happy to clap out rhythms and pass out snacks, to comfort babies who cried and give tired parents an hour to worship with other adults.  I remember feeling happy in that room, the sun shining brightly on Sunday mornings.