Eldest son spoke in church today, making me feel quite old. I’m not sure how my little firstborn babe is now big enough to give talks to the congregation at church. He did a good job, speaking about being kind to people, which makes my heart sing as he chose the topic. Bless you, darling Eldest Son.
Talks at our church always, always, end with the phrase, “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” They just do. Always. But that part slipped H’s mind. He finished his story about Great-Grandpa Wilcox and then just sort of trailed off. “That’s it,” he said, and sat down.
After H spoke, a newly-minted missionary gave his farewell address. As he talked, three little ragamuffin boys from a different ward entered the chapel with the intent to cut across to the other side of the church. They looked around and saw all the people and started running to get to the north side of the chapel. One of the boys was wearing jeans and sporting a serious mullet. One led the way with great speed. The third and smallest, wearing a giant oversized t-shirt, tripped on his own feet two-thirds of the way across the room and ate it in front of the crowd assembled to hear the outgoing missionary.
Dutch and I laughed. Hard. Because we are the kind of people who laugh in church when other people trip and fall, I guess.
Mostly we laughed because our kids are the type who would sneak into a crowded, solemn assembly while wearing jeans and a big shirt and a mullet and turf it during the missionary’s farewell speech on charity.
Being the type of family that is often a spectacle, we are drawn to the funny parts.
And basically, that’s all I got.