Our Sunday School Come-Back Tour Was Trashed

So...despite being kicked out of EVERY ministry known to man, Brad and I have somehow resurrected our Sunday School teaching partnership. By "partnership," obviously I mean that Brad spends hours in heartfelt lesson planning to create a meaningful message which I effortlessly mock and make a mess of the moment he implements it. We're a great team.

You can imagine my delight when Brad shared the news that we were teaching Sunday School again. "All...I...need..." he gasped, lunging to the left and right as household projectiles whipped by his head, "for...you...to...do..." he roared, running as I grabbed the broom, "is...to...make...a...poster." He fell to the ground, face contorted in pain as he succumbed to a paralytic cramp.

Huh. A poster. I guess I could do that.

Three days later...

"What is that?" Brad asked.

"Your poster," I growled, frowning at his lack of gratitude.

"A tri-fold board?" he said incredulously.

I glanced around for the broom.

He leaned in for a closer look. "You drew a bridge?"

"You said that verse in 1 Corinthians acts as a bridge for understanding the bible," I snarled.

"And a train?" he pointed.

"We can paste the kids' pictures in the windows," I glared. "It's whimsical."

"This is..." he scratched his head, "AMAZING. You made the Taj-Mahal of posters."

And just like that, marital harmony was restored.

Now, in the past, Brad and I were accustomed to taking our Sunday School class on the road. Youth Sunday School is often treated like they're a band of traveling gypsies. In one room one week. Another room the next. We've held classes in parking lots and supply closets. Needless to say, we were impressed with our new accommodations.

"Look, Brad! An accordion door!" I exclaimed.  "Where should I put the poster?"

"How about next to the case of paper towels?" Brad suggested. I scooched past the stack of chairs, nearly knocking over a pile of coffee filters, to position it.  "This is nice," I beamed.

Our pastor was manning children's church in the spacious area outside our own intimate little alcove. Brad began his lesson in his usual quiet voice, having to raise it though, to be heard over the raucous singing of our enthusiastic neighbors. "They certainly are making a joyful noise," I commented, ignoring Brad's warning glare. Apparently the new Mosiman motto is: Sarcasm has no place in Sunday School. "I'll embroider that on a pillow," I'd told him. "I'll just be satisfied if we're not fired from another volunteer position," he snapped back.

As Brad referred to our poster during the lesson and I channeled my best Christian-version of Vanna, pointing out our poster's finest features, we heard Pastor adjusting the volume on his giant flat-screen TV mounted attractively on the wall. I'd accidentally knocked our poster to the ground from its precarious perch on the paper towels as I'd peered past the accordion door. Brad was challenging his students to come up with examples of whether their brainstormed bible recollections fit into the category of people, event, or idea, when Pastor began demonstrating his best Dance Dance Revolution moves for the kids. Six-year-olds erupted into Moonwalking Moves, Flossing, and Whip-It Nae-Naes. "Here, have an Oreo," I hurriedly said to our students, trying to draw their attention BACK to our poster. "They're double-stuffed."

Pastor was now dishing up hot fudge sundaes. We sighed. Brad pulled out his wallet and started handing out five dollar bills. But the heart wants what the heart wants. By the time Pastor's laser light show had concluded, we deduced that next week's youth Sunday School attendance would dip dramatically as our students would go to the underground, seeking out fake IDs that would prove that they were actually YOUNGER, to get into Pastor's class.

"I TOLD you we weren't meant to teach Sunday School," I told Brad as we sadly lugged our poster home. We had to go the long way because Pastor had set up pony rides for the kids.

What Brad doesn't know (about my vending machine addiction) won't hurt him

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brad glanced up from his phone with a frown. "How much do you spent on the vending machines each day?" he asked. Uh-oh. I thought he was playing online euchre. He must have finally drifted over to my blog.

I pretended to think. "Oh...I don't know...a couple of times...?" I finally answered. "A week?" Brad clarified. We've been married thirty years. The man may be cheap but he's no fool. I ducked my head sheepishly, attempting to look adorable. "A day," I whispered. He stared at me in shock. "You do know the mark-up rate on that stuff, don't you?" he inquired incredulously. I sighed. Other than being completely obnoxious, I had so few faults to speak of. Why couldn't he let this go? The vending machine was my Vegas. I lived for the thrill of pushing those little buttons. The adrenaline rush when my selected treat successfully navigated its coiled contraption and plunged several snack stories down to its receivership receptacle. The horror and despair that I felt when it was unable to escape the snack slammer.

My utter lack of self-control also is a major contributing factor at play here (Oh! I have TWO faults! Obnoxious AND lack of self-control!). Should a giant bag of peanut M & Ms appear on my desk...I am going to eat the ENTIRE bag. The vending machine actually helps work as a weight management system because I eventually run out of money. For some reason, Brad was horrified by this revelation.

Accompanying me on a grocery shopping run, Brad interviewed me about my snack and lunch preferences. When we got home, he armed himself with baggies and a Sharpie marker and busied himself divvying up portion-sized bags and labeling my string-cheese.  "Look," he told me, pointing to the portions, "You have two Monday cheeses!" I glared at him. Undaunted, he proclaimed gleefully, "Think of all the money we'll save!" So, on Monday, I headed off to school with my two labelled cheeses, a baggie full of peanut M & Ms, a baggie packed with honey, mustard and onion pretzels, and a sack of mini-oranges. "You can eat all the oranges you want!" Brad encouraged me. I was as blue as a girl could be.

What Brad didn't factor in was the truck breaking down this morning. Stressed out, I headed straight to the Pepsi vending machine to calm my nerves and experience that rush. But as long as he doesn't read my blog again, I should be okay.

Teachers talk trash...or treasure? When it's "time" to walk away

"What could I do with a set of twelve mini-wiffle balls?" I wondered. "Well...beer pong is out," my friend Joanne said firmly, "But what about a variation, though, using buoyancy as the objective study?" Sold! I scooped the wiffle balls out of the junk pile.

This would not be my first experience with dumpster-diving in the teacher refuse pile. Educators are committed to the belief that someone out there would want their outdated, ripped, worn, useless stuff (I was actually thinking of another s~ word). Unfortunately, I am that someone. I conscientiously avoid the faculty room like the plague as it is laden with the off-casts of others. But the bathroom AND the Pepsi machine are in there. It's an endless cycle. "Oh my goodness!" I squealed, waddling over, "A stuffed penguin!" It was like a sign from God. I'd just spent over an hour earlier on a penguin font generator printing out the names of my students for their cubbies, delighted when I realized the U was represented by a dead cartoon penguin. How whimsical and fun!

Someone was also getting rid of a 3/4s filled notebook of black paper specifically for use with gel pens. Surely this was an accident, I thought to myself, Who would give this little treasure away?  What? Am I an idiot? Of course I nabbed it.

The lemon law is in effect, though. My friend Geri conned me into taking a beautifully bound photographic book depicting the Erie Canal. I lugged it over to my room to discover that the illustrations featured the architectural history of the homes and buildings lining the length of the 363 miles-long waterway. My nine-year-olds were going to eat that right up! As I snuck the book back to the faculty room, I spied yet another treasure: An old-school event timer housed in its own heavy box complete with convenient handle which plugs into the wall! I remember sports-type people using this little device during high school basketball games in the 80s. I plugged it in and an ear-spitting obnoxious wail filled the room...it works! I MUST have it! Turns out "I MUST have it" meant "I MUST have it until I came to my senses ten minutes later when I envisioned my 4th graders making this go off in Room 24 every other minute." Perhaps yet another sign from the Almighty. From the junk pile you came; unto the junk pile you must return. Until someone else comes along.