I can’t wait for the ride home from church.
And neither can our kids.
Three hours is a long time for the youngsters to sit on a wooden bench listening to adults talk about religious topics and sing strange hymns where the women sing one verse while the men wait around to join in at the end. Who made these rules?
When the doors swing open to the parking lot my kids bolt out of the church like it’s on fire. No use in screaming their names across the parking lot when we’ve reminded them over and over to use their chapel voices.
But the ride home is the best part because I have no idea what will come out of their mouths. They are chatty and can’t wait to tell us what they learned. They get stories and prophets mixed up. Anna usually sings us a song she learned, and we hope the lyrics don’t include butt, poop or fart.
But it usually does.
Sometimes I wonder what we gain by dragging our kids to church each week. I’m not sure our kids are any more reverent than before. But they’ve made some good friends and it’s time we can spend together. And where else will they learn about the Jason the Baptist?
Now, can someone please hand me the Tupperware full of Cheerios and the Benadryl?