While M and I haven’t yet decided on a church to call our own, we’ve apparently visited our most frequent haunt enough for N to feel at home.
During Sunday morning’s service when the children were called front for their story, M asked me if I wanted to take N up, something neither of us have ever done. Half the time N’s in the nursery during the service, and she’s only twenty months old, so I’ve never really thought about her enjoying the story that much.
“Do you want to go up for the children’s story?”
“Yeah,” she said, wriggling down. She walked right out of our row and down the tile aisle.
“Go with her,” M commanded. I scrambled out of my seat, but by the time I reached the back of the aisle where I could see her, N was tidily seated on the quilt spread for the kids, so I just waited there.
She looked back at me; she looked around; she listened to the story and song; she took a turn playing with a toy brought forward by another little girl–and when the children’s time was over, she watched as all of the other children went back to their seats and the pastor started rolling up the quilt.
“She doesn’t want to leave,” an old Bible professor and his wife chuckled as I retrieved her.