We arrive at church and have to find somewhere my
children will be contain, but close enough to the door for a speeding exit when
the inevitable tantrum or bathroom break occurs. I have to pray my
goldfish/pretzel supply outlasts the speaker, and on High Council day my faith
is tested.
The speaker is finished and all the mothers sigh a
little sigh of relief knowing they have managed to control their children for 65-70
minutes and behavior will be a primary teacher's problem soon. Then our beloved
bishop, a kind and righteous man whom I respect and care about, rises on a day he isn’t conducting. I cringed
inside and a wave of panic washes across me as I frantically eye the goldfish
and see the empty Ziploc bag. He adds his testimony and experiences to the
topic of the speakers and those extra 5-10 minutes stretches myself and my
children to the breaking point. My baby seems to be programmed with an
automatic switch that allows 65-70 minutes AND ONLY 65-70 minutes of patience
and then she is DONE. Spirit or no spirit, she does not care what the bishop
has to say and will truly bring that chapel to the ground if she is not set
free soon. The closing song then has 4 FREAKING versus and the organist knows
one speed: slow. By the end of the 4 verse, 2 page “I believe in Christ” I want
to throw the hymn book at the conductor, run screaming from the building, ninja
kicking the door on my way out.
The closing prayer is punctuated with wailing
toddlers and sighing children. The lovely, elderly sister saying the prayer makes sure she blesses EVERYBODY.
I am then off to teach primary. First problem
with is: I hate children. 2nd: I have anxiety and even getting to
church should qualify me for a medal. I am currently at war with the primary
president that causes a mild amount of awkwardness when I flat out tell the 2nd
counselor he should just be grateful I haven’t committed a crime and to tell
Sister Fussy Pants to back off.
The lessons are boring. Church is boring. Those dear
children will eventually appreciate that one day they will glean a drop of spiritual
understanding from lessons, but for now they are just being tortured by a woman
who probably knows less about the gospel than they do. I bribe them. We have an
understanding.
3rd hour arrives and I hurry to the
library to help there. An hour of boredom punctuated by the ward that is after
us letting their children run free down the hallways in an irreverent and
disruptive manner.
I rush home to hurry and get lunch prepared. Lunch
is consumed at top speed because we are all hungry. Church meetings cause an
abnormal need for nourishment apparently. We then rush to get in naps. Rush to
visit family. Rush to get home and get bath time done. Rush to get everyone to
sleep so I can have a few minutes of peace with my husband before the week
starts all over again.
I lay down to sleep and think “Shouldn’t I feel good
when I go to church? Shouldn’t the desire to march to the front, grab the
speaker by the collar and unceremoniously plop him back into his chair NOT be a
part of the feelings in sacrament meeting?” And heaven help us all if it’s fast
and testimony meeting. But that is a whole other post for a different day.
I sigh and pray that when next week arrives I will
not let my blood pressure get so high and I will do better to not want to take
a cattle prod to everyone.
2 comments:
I would tell you it gets better, but it doesn't. I just have gotten used to Sundays being a lot of work. Period. THey are not a day of rest for mothers. But I know it's all worth it (it really better bE!)
My husband says, Day of rest, my rear.
Amen Sister!
I love you rants and remember the splitting headaches every Sunday when my kids were little.
Ashley... I love you!
ToOdLeS.
ps. Tony has had a very tough week of health issues. Thank you for your talent for writing and making him laugh. My entire family loves an Ashley Rant!
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