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.
No comments:
Post a Comment