sundays

A day of rest? Doesn't feel like it. Sacrament meeting is spent holding down escape artists and shushing whiners alone while staring at Bruce safely tucked behind the pulpit as I slowly mouth the words, "You owe me." Primary is always an adventure. "Will my teachers show up today?" is the first question. I have yet to experience a Sunday substitute-free. We have stairs in our church building. I'm usually running up and down, across and inbetween, in and out looking for people, children, counselors, bishopric members, subsitutes, someone willing to serve. I'm sweating profusely before the second hour has even begun. And then there's sharing time. Teaching, conducting, cuddling, holding down of wiggly ones, shushing mini discussions around the room or children lost in solo conversation. "Note to self," I say. "Reverence issues on the agenda for my next presidency meeting." I think this must be the eternal theme of every Primary president.

But then the Primary children sing "If the Savior Stood Beside Me" in their loudest, brightest voices while I hold my Stop & Go sign. And when we get home, B wanders around the house with a transformer in one hand, singing, "When Jesus Christ Was Baptized." All three verses at the top of his lungs. And at bedtime, L prays that we can be safe, have the Spirit with us, and that M will be nice to him. And I remember that these are the Sundays I chose to have. Restful or not, I only want these kinds of Sundays.