Easy like Sunday morning

One day I'd like to get to church on a Sunday and not get whiplash from the change in pace.

The other week I was doing one of the readings in church and so was meeting with others in the vestry just before the service to pray. I couldn't think of a thing to say, and I stood, mute and unfocused, managing the occasional 'Amen'.

The whirlwind of Sunday morning had one again left my head full of static, and it was going to take me longer than the distance between the main doors at the back of church and the vestry at the front to calm it down, and this was not an unfamiliar feeling. I usually arrive at church in that state.

Whoever said, 'Easy like Sunday morning,' clearly didn't have children to get to church. My two require endless nagging to get them dressed, brushed and in their coats and shoes round about the right time to leave. We're inevitably just stumbling out of the front door five minutes before the service is about to start, with the church a ten minute walk away. On the day when I'm reading, or doing the prayers, it has been known for me to form an advance party to scuttle down the road ahead of my husband who undertakes to herd the children there when the missing shoe has been located, or the correct toy selected to accompany them. Sometimes when I appear from the vestry in my state of calm serenity (ahem), they're there sitting buffed and alert in church (haha) and other times they appear, grim-faced and pale during the first hymn.

It's not only the children that make Sunday mornings so fraught, however. Some of it may be down to my keenness to extract any last moments in bed on the only day free from school runs or (now) early morning swimming training, and I always underestimate how long things are going to take to get ready.

So much for the practical things, and I'm sure we're not unique - but the real chaos is going on in my head, and that's the thing that perplexes me the most.

I come into church, and it feels different. Whether it should or not is another debate, but I find that eventually, after I've calmed down and soaked up the atmosphere, listened to the liturgy, sung some worship songs, closed my eyes to pray, heard God's word read aloud.... I am in a different place from where I was when I shrugged off my coat and sat down, out of breath. I have slowed; refocused. I am outside myself, for once, and my eyes are on Him.

It feels so much better.

I want there to be less of a difference between that feeling that the breathless avalanche that is my arrival at church. I want there to be less of a difference between one state and the other - my outside church state of mind and my in-church state of mind.

I don't want my head to be so full of things that to slow down and seek God is such a stark contrast from my normal way of being.

I want Him to seep into my normal, everyday consciousness more and more. I know that family life and circumstances are always going to raise the likelihood that the trip down the road on a Sunday morning might be more hairy and exhilarating than serene, but taking that into account, I would love there to be less of a contrast between the spiritual and the secular. Let's face it, it's me that makes the distinction in the first place, isn't it? God doesn't think that I should be in one frame of mind for an hour and a half on a Sunday morning and a different one all week, does He? It's not as if school runs and supermarket shops and sitting at the poolside are beneath Him and He's only interested in me between 11am and 12.20pm on a Sunday.

I am not generally someone who compartmentalises things. I know people who have one pigeonhole for family stuff, one for relationships, friends, work, health etc., but I am not like this. My life has always been more like a sandwich - my children are one layer, my marriage another, work and health and so on the other layers - if one of them is bad, the whole thing tastes wrong. One part will infect all the others and so if all is not well in an area of my life, the whole of me is upset.

I think this is why I am uncomfortable with the feeling that sometimes I put worshipping God in a compartment only to be accessed on Sundays. Because I've done this, the rest of my life has to be awkwardly contained in the same framework and it just won't do it. So the other jumbled-up compartments labelled 'The Rest Of My Life' all swish about and froth up and overflow all on top of the 'Sunday morning' compartment and it gets swamped. And then in the vestry I find that I am waiting for 'Life' to drain away so that I can find God.

Perhaps it's not always like this. I suspect there have been times when my Life Sandwich is liberally spread throughout with spirituality and the whole thing is much richer and tastier and more satisfying because of it. Every bite has God in it.

Maybe I've just lost that at the moment; after all, Christmas is a huge and ironic distraction from one's spiritual life, isn't it? I find that I am all on to focus on the nativity advent calendar with the children once a day in the maelstrom of preparations and purchases in December. I missed the Carol Service this year, my annual advent devotional got pushed out as life got too busy and no sooner were the Christmas festivities over than I succumbed to a chest infection and sort of opted out of everything for the next week, which meant that my usual New Year musings and preparations were somewhat truncated.

That's probably not a bad thing. I over-think most things.

So, here I am in January and I am feeling a little out of sorts. Breathless from the speed with which I've found myself in another New Year and a bit reluctant to embrace it as I liked the old one.  Head spinning a little, trying to find something to focus on that isn't moving, something that will stay the same even when everything else is constantly shifting shape.

That'll be you, then, God.

Spread through my sandwich, will you?  I'm inviting you in - access all areas. Be the main filling, be the crusts, the salad, the pickle, the condiments, the mayonnaise on the side of the plate. Overflow and affect everything.

Peace, please.

You know how I feel

Max Lucado is lovely.

I imagine you think so too.

I've read his books to my children; one of their favourites is the one about the Wemmicks - it's called, 'You Are Special' and it's a wonderful, gentle book about the love that you have for us, Father God. In fact, it's about 'The Audience of One', really - a lot for me to learn as well, and keep on learning. The only opinion that matters is yours, even if other people weigh me up and find me wanting. 

But I was on Amazon a few days ago and I found myself exploring the rest of Mr Lucado's books and I came across one that intrigued me. Reviews for this book were outstanding and so I bought it and started it the other day. It turns out that the author writes just as easily for adults as for children and he seems wise and insightful and gentle and yet really woke me up. I think this will be a book with a message for me. Or maybe more than one, I'm hoping, since I've only read the first couple of chapters and stopped in my tracks a couple of times already.

It's called, 'In the Eye of the Storm', and it's a detailed look at one day in Jesus' life - a day that the author thinks may have been (aside from the crucifixion) one of the most stressful days of your time down here. 

Jesus, I have never really considered that your life might have been stress-filled.  Yes, I know that you were afraid in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I know that you were angry with the money changers in the temple. I know that you were moved to tears when Lazarus died and I know that you were filled with compassion for the people who needed you. I know that you went through agonies both physical and spiritual in the last few days of your life. But stress? 

This is the day that you found out that your cousin, John the Baptist, was dead.  I have read this passage many times and I've never stopped to consider that particular part of it. Max Lucado opened my eyes with this:

'...the man who came closer to understanding Jesus than any other is dead. Imagine losing the one person who knows you better than anyone else, and you will feel what Jesus is feeling. Reflect on the horror of being told that your dearest friend has just been murdered, and you will relate to Jesus' sorrow. Consider your reaction if you were told that your best friend had just been decapitated by a people-pleasing, incestuous monarch, and you'll begin to see how the day begins for Christ.' 

Max Lucado, In the Eye of the Storm, p28

Not good then.

I've always sort of assumed that nothing got to you, Lord. That because you were God, you weren't surprised by anything, or wrong footed, or taken aback, or even particularly bothered. I imagined that you knew what was to happen to John the Baptist and so it didn't shock you. I thought that you were probably so supernaturally prepared for your own fate that it wouldn't scare you that hot on the heels of this news came the news that Herod was after your head too.

So bereavement and a death threat in the same conversation. 

I don't think I ever really credited you with feelings. Sorry about that. Insofar as I've actually considered it at all, I've sort of had an image of you as gliding through life totally in control, completely prepared, unshakeable. If you felt extremes of emotion then they would only be positive ones. That a negative thought never entered your head. That you were just full of peace and love and hope that you were unaffected by the nitty gritty of human life. I think I've always (and still am) a bit confused by the God-and-man thing. How much man were you? How much God?  Is there any way for someone with a small, human brain to grasp the idea that you were fully man and fully God? 

So if you were fully man, you must have been devastated by the death of your friend. Someone who saw you for who you were. Someone who understood (a bit). If I got that news, it would be the end of my day. I wouldn't function. If I heard that someone I loved had been killed, and the murderer was looking for me, that would be it. Too much, twice over.  Can't really get my head round it. 

All it says is that you went off on your own somewhere. 

But not for long. Suddenly the disciples came back. They surrounded you and all wanted to regale you with tales of miracles and healings and wonders that they had seen and performed an been involved with. They were exuberant and full of joy. They wanted to celebrate and they needed you to join in. You had empowered them; made simple fishermen into great leaders who could do great things. They were amazed and happy and full of enthusiasm. You'd just heard that your friend was dead and your life was in danger. So what did you do? Did you turn away and say, 'Not now. I've just had bad news. I can't be doing with all this right now. Leave me alone.'? 

Nope. You found it in yourself to celebrate with them, somehow. 

And there's more. Hot on the heels of the disciples is a huge crowd who are overjoyed to find you. They wanted a piece of the man who the disciples had talked about. The guy who had started all this. They all had needs and wants and you went from an attempt to find some peace and solitude to being engulfed in a large crowd demanding things from you.

No wonder you signalled to the disciples that they should get away with you for some rest. You climbed into a boat and sailed off. But when you got where you were going, it turns out the crowd had followed you. They want to hear you speak, listen to your teachings, have you heal the sick and do wondrous things. If ever there was a time for saying 'I can't do this now. Come back tomorrow,' that was it. But the Bible tells us that:

'When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick.'

Matthew 14:14

'He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.'

Mark 6:34

'He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed healing.'

Luke 9:11

You must have been tired. You wanted to get away, we know that, because you tried, twice. Once and your disciples found you, and then again in the boat away from the crowds. And yet, when your plans were thwarted, you didn't lash out or insist on your own way, you felt compassion for the demanding crowds, and you allowed your plan to change. 

I wonder if anyone asked you how you were? I bet they didn't. It makes me think of how I act so many times each week where I feel swamped by demands (and I know that many of these oppressive obligations might be in my own imagination). There are times when I'm patient, times when I cheerfully put aside what I want to do in order to do something for someone else. Those are probably in the minority, I suspect. There are the times when I respond to a need with bad grace, with much huffing and puffing and scowling and grumbling. That is a pretty frequent occurrence. 

And then there are the times when I stamp my foot (either metaphorically or physically) and raise my voice and snarl, 'No. What about me?  When do I get to do what I want to do? I can't do this now, come back later. Or preferably don't come back at all.'  

But you didn't. You had more need to find peace that day than I've ever had, and yet you had compassion on the people who demanded things from you and you responded with love and patience. You found a reserve of energy when surely you must have been running on empty. 

And guess what?  Out of this enormous crowd, how many of them thought to bring a packed lunch? Nope. Not many. They wanted you to feed them too. You asked the disciples to sort this one out, thinking maybe that their recent exploits would have taught them that God wouldn't let them down - but no. They looked at you with incredulity and so you had to step up once again. If you want something doing, do it yourself, hey?

I am thankful that I have never had news that someone I love has been murdered. I have never heard on the grapevine that someone is looking to kill me. I have never had twelve people descend on me at the moment I want to run away and grieve and ask me to join in the celebrations for amazing happenings and miracles that they have done in my name. I've never had a crowd of thousands asking me to heal their sick. 

What I have had are moments where someone is speaking to me, the children are clamouring for help, snacks, toys, computer passwords and assistance in the toilet (I know, there are only two of them but sometimes it feels like many more), the oven timer tells me that the dinner is ready, the doorbell rings or the phone goes, and I need to reply to an urgent message I've just received and I feel like screaming. Sometimes these moments erupt from nowhere; just before the onslaught I was quietly pottering on my computer with a coffee and there wasn't a thundercloud in sight. Next moment, the heavens open on top of me. My heart rate goes from a steady trundle to a sprint. 

Did you get up that morning with any inkling of what sort of day it would turn out to be? Did you climb out of bed and stretch and look at the blue sky and feel all serene and peaceful, only to be hit by the juggernaut coming your way?

Do you really know how I feel? Always? Really?

Max Lucado reckons that you do.

'His pulse has raced. His eyes have grown weary. His heart has grown heavy. He has had to climb out of bed with a sore throat. He has been kept awake late and has gotten up early. He knows how you feel.'

In the Eye of the Storm, p31/32

He goes on to suggest that it's hard to believe that you did feel all our headaches and heartaches. That we generally believe that you suffered pain and fear and sorrow, but not the day to day hassles that we go through. 

Can it really be that you felt frustration and irritation and disappointment and bad temper and self-pity? Did you really have achey joints or an upset stomach or long to stay in bed? 

If you did, nowhere in the Bible does it say, 'And Jesus went from that place very grumpily and stamped his foot and threw his mug against the wall and refused to come out again until they said sorry.'

So maybe your self control was amazing. Maybe you felt those things but your capacity for love was, well, superhuman. Maybe you were God as well as man. That's where we started. 

'For we do not have a great high priest who is unable to empathise with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are - yet he did not sin.'

Hebrews 4:15

It makes sense that being who you were, so in tune with the Spirit, that the fruit of the spirit in you must have been a tremendous crop. No wonder you were overflowing with 'love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control'. (Galatians 5:22/23). It was you that Paul had in mind when he wrote that. So the thing is that you felt all those things, all those crowding-in emotions, all the trapped, resentful, selfish, irritable, self-pitying emotions that I feel and yet you kept on giving? Kept on going, kept on smiling, kept on loving.

That seems a big ask. 

I can't do that without you. And to be honest, even if you help me I can't guarantee I won't give in to the bad temper and scowl and mutter 'What about me?' 

But I want to try, because I don't want to be the one who's always bad-tempered and cross and inward-looking. I want to try because I want my children to be kind, patient, compassionate people and not irritable and selfish and stampy.  I want them to do better than me. I want to try because that's the sort of person I want to be, too. And I want to try because you want this for me and I want you to be pleased with me. 

So help me remember that you have been here ahead of me and even the negative emotions that I feel every day, you know those as well as the noble ones, should there be any. Help me to remember that you were a man, a real one, not an airbrushed one. You probably didn't have shoulder length bouffant beautifully conditioned hair and a manicure. Help me to remember that there were times when you felt cross and wanted to get away and you had good reason, but that you loved people too much to turn your back on them to meet your own needs. Help me to be inspired by that and not discouraged, because I am so different. So far from there. 

Lord, thank you that you are not a distant God who looks down on us without any understanding of the rubbish we wade through here on earth. Thankyou that you knew about demands and stress and overwhelming emotions. You came down here and you lived as we did, and if I believe that then I believe that you lived as we did in every way. You did feel the way we feel, but you didn't give in. Thankyou that you walk next to me when I'm struggling and that you have promised to hold me up. 

Thankyou. 

God-and-man. Still can't get my head round it. I think that cleverer people than me can't get their heads round it either. 

By the way, Max Lucado says that you might have had acne or knobbly knees. 

Surely not. Surely you weren't that human. 

Were you? 

Suffer the little children

Right, God, I'm needing some advice.

I am a Mum of two small children.  Getting bigger, but still small; they're four and six. This means that they have a limited attention span, lots of energy, no volume control and a low boredom threshold. None of these attributes are character flaws, I don't think; they are four and six. The ability to remain quiet, sit still and concentrate develops in the years beyond four and six - in some cases far beyond. 

I'm setting the scene. 

My children are, to me, endlessly entertaining, frustrating, endearing and irritating. I am quite sure that the casual onlooker would agree with me in varying proportions here, but I do admit that loving my two daughters unconditionally in the way that only parents are able helps me to live with them despite the negatives. The wonder of them tends to outweigh the frustration they cause; is that a bit what it's like for you?  I completely understand if so far this is pretty much how you feel about me. I can be endearing when I try and I have a winning smile, after all...

Moving on. 

We go to the family service at church on a Sunday morning as a family, and the reason we do this is because I love you and I want to worship you, listen to you, speak to you and learn more about you and more about how to live my life as you want me to live it. I very much want my children to come some day to a place where they can say the same. I believe that children have their own spirituality and even though my own witness to you in family life is patchy and sometimes must be a big letdown, they amaze me with their perception and their faith. Remember when Katy asked me for a specific prayer just before her operation?  I had no idea that she'd remembered it, and no idea that it had helped her. And Lizzie too has said things to me that show that she has experienced you in a simple, child-like sort of way. 

I also come to church to see my church family. To meet people who accept me and love me and support me and to offer my acceptance and love and support to them as well because that's what we do. I've had my ups and downs and I find that I need my Sunday visit to church, just like my home group and whatever else I'm involved in at church to keep me going. If Christianity is a crutch for the weak as some have alleged, then I'm weak and I'm limping - I need that crutch. So I come on Sunday needy. 

My girls for the most part enjoy church; they like their Sunday school groups; they like making things, they like it when there's something interesting to look at or listen to, and they like the cake afterwards. What they're not so good at is sitting still when grown up things are going on. They are four and six, remember. 

I want my children to learn about you, Father.  I'd love it if they caught on about you a whole lot earlier than I did. I want them to understand that it's the most important decision that they could ever make. I want them to learn to talk to you, to lean on you, to learn about you and to listen to you. I want them to be able to worship you. So I can understand that to whisk our little ones off to Sunday school at the first opportunity, while undeniably giving hard-pressed Mums the opportunity to relax and concentrate on you not only places a burden on the Sunday school leaders but also denies the children themselves a chance to learn to worship in the midst of the rest of the church family. If they can listen to the music, hear the singing, look around at people lost in worship and feel the Holy Spirit moving, then so much the better. I would like this for my children. 

So I encourage them to listen, to look and, where possible, to sing. Of course, Katy can't read the words and Elizabeth isn't yet quite quick enough with her reading to keep up with the songs, but on rare occasions she has a go at a simple chorus. When she does I love it. I love her little voice and I love that for those moments she is engaged instead of wriggling and asking over and over when she can go to her group. Katy sometimes likes being picked up and now and again she leans on me in a sort of contented trance as I jiggle in time to the music in an attempt to keep her interested. 

How can they sit still?
They're superheroes

The level of engagement that I manage to achieve of course is directly related to the status of the children; if they are sitting or standing nicely without drawing attention to themselves, not talking, shouting, fighting, tickling, crawling under chairs, walking along seats, climbing on radiator pipes, running about or laughing excessively, then I am able to worship (with one eye on the screen and one on the children ready to extract, correct or disentangle if necessary). If they are committing any of the above crimes then I am unable to join in with any sincerity as my mind is occupied with crowd control. I know there are only two of them, but it sometimes feels like many more. I don't know if they look around at other people and see men and women engrossed in your worship but it seems unlikely that they see me that way as I am always keeping an eye on them. 

When the girls come back in after Sunday school brandishing their creations they are always voluble in their enthusiasm. Katy usually announces what she's been doing at top volume whether we are in the middle of a hymn or a prayer.

'LOOK, MUMMY, I'VE MADE A RAINBOW BUT IT'S HEAD'S FALLEN OFF'

She announced, recently.  I love to hear her story and as any Mum would I break off to welcome her back and admire her handiwork. You've been there. I'm sure my lack of attention at that point doesn't offend you. You'd have your arms open too, I have no doubt.

The service ends and after the notices, during which I am asked approximately every eleven seconds how soon the girls can go and get a piece of cake or a flapjack, they dash off for refreshments. They're full of energy, having been sitting nicely during the worship, (ahem, well, as nicely as we could manage) then in their groups doing activities, and then (ahem) sitting nicely again. They are at the back of church like exocets, grab cake, then seek out their friends and then... well, who knows. I gather up bags, coats and craft activities and then try to find them. 

This is not easy, as they could be anywhere. They travel fast after an hour or more of containment. They want to make noise after having been shushed for a long time, and they want to run about and climb after having been urged to sit or stand still for a long time, and they get excited in a large building with other children of their age. They are hungry and are allowed something sugary and what follows is a burst of energy.

Meanwhile, back in grown-up land, I want to chat, or drink coffee, or find people I need to talk to, or perhaps even speak to someone new and welcome them to our church. I might even feel like indulging in a little morsel of flapjack myself. But it isn't as easy as that. 

There are those who feel that children should understand that the church is a your house, and that their demeanour should be correspondingly respectful.  That shouting, squealing, running or climbing on seats is inappropriate and offensive. That children should sit nicely, be encouraged to join in by all means, but parents are responsible for maintaining a level of behaviour in their offspring that doesn't permit the letting off of steam in the church building. Outside the church is a churchyard, where of course we need to make sure that our children don't show disrespect for graves or memorials, and there is a busy road without adequate gates which poses obvious problems. So they can't play inside, and they can't play outside, but they need to play because they are little and they've been trying to behave for an hour or more.

What do you think?

Tell me, because I really don't know. Really.  I can see that children need to learn respect. I understand that there are levels of behaviour that are unacceptable. I know that not everyone looks at my children and their foibles with the same affection that I do. I understand that a noisy child can interfere with someone else's concentration and enjoyment. I can see that a child dashing about after a service with a chocolate muffin in hand might leave a trail of crumbs. I know that you are our Lord God as well as our Heavenly Daddy and you deserve the utmost respect. 

I don't think that small children are showing disrespect when they run about. They just run about because they're children and they can't seem to walk anywhere. I don't think they're being disrespectful when they shout; its just because they're children and they can't seem to speak quietly. We keep telling them and eventually they'll get it. I don't even think they show disrespect when they climb underneath the Holy Table to make a den, though I do understand that for some, even more tolerant people, making a den underneath the Holy Table might be a step too far. One person says that if we worry about children pulling the cloth off the table and thus upsetting the candlesticks, we should just move the cloth, whereas someone else says that it is an outrage that we allow children there at all.

Who is to say who is right, but you?

What do you think?  If you're four, a line of chairs in a row looks like something that needs walking across like a bridge, especially if that means that you are for a while on the level with the crowd and able to see and not at everyone's hip-height. If you're a grown up a child walking on a row of chairs might look like a lack of respect for property and the likelihood that those chairs might be a bit grubby next time someone sits on them.

Who is to say who is right?

So the children need to play, and playing is awkward in the circumstances.  Every parent knows that you can only push things so far and so - we leave. We go home. Elizabeth sets off on her scooter with energy and Katy dances along or wants us to swing her between us as we walk up the road, leaving behind the church family enjoying drinks and fellowship. It's easier that way.

What can I do, Lord, or is it just something that needs time? Someone told me when I had a moan that it was something that all mums go through; just a phase that passes. Someone else told me that there were years when their children were small that they just didn't attend church because it was too hard. Someone tells me don't worry if your children make a noise because they are family too and someone else asks me to quieten them down. Someone says don't worry about chasing them about as we all have responsibility to care, protect and correct our children and someone else says that they are my responsibility and I shouldn't try to abdicate that. Who is right?

Maybe we're all right. Everyone seems well-meaning. Maybe it's a matter of perspective. But what do you think? 

"Then people brought the brought little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked them. Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'"

Matthew 19:13-14

How wonderful it must have been to be able to bring the children to you in the flesh, to say, 'Here are my little girls,' and then you pull them towards yourself, smile and pray for them with your hand on their shoulders. I know we can still do this now but, like Thomas, I would love for you to do it in the flesh. I do have faith, increasing faith, but I need more. How easy it must have been for those Mums to encourage their children to approach you with a smile. For me, I feel the need to make church attractive to the children, to try not to put them off. I worry that containing them, limiting them, making them try too hard for too long will make them not want to come. Until I can somehow get across to them something of who you are... but then nothing is impossible with you. I just want to introduce them to you, Lord Jesus. I want you to bless them.  To bring them close as your own.

Lord Jesus, how much do you expect of our children? How child-like should they be and how grown-up should they be? What pleases you? That they're there at all, even if they're making a noise, or if they're sitting beautifully without drawing any attention to themselves?  I know that you love them whatever, that's not in question, but how should we get through our services? I know I can't possibly be the first harried Mum to have put the question. Is it me that needs to grow up?

Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I resent that it's all made more difficult. To those who shrug and say it was difficult for them too when their children were little I feel like protesting that surely it shouldn't be so difficult. It's all about acceptance, isn't it? About families. It doesn't mean that we don't get it wrong, but it means we should encourage, not discourage. Facilitate, not impede. Make it easier, not harder. Include, not exclude.

Children are not the congregations of the future, they're the congregations of now. If they are not welcome to be themselves now then they won't be there at all when they're grown up. If we are a church family, then we're a family, and families include the old, the middle aged, the young. They include those who can be quiet and those who are not very good at it. You can no more penalise a child for being childish than you can an elderly person for being old, surely?

I don't say that we should sit oblivious or indulgent as our children rampage round causing damage and mayhem and disrupting proceedings. Of course we should teach and correct and guide. Of course there has to be a limit just as there is in any other area of life. We should set an example and we should show them what is expected. It's just that I think that we sometimes expect too much.

Perhaps we're all expecting too much. Maybe we're asking too much of children, of parents and of those who like an uninterrupted service. I don't know. I really don't know. This is not a tirade at the unfairness of life, Lord; I just don't know what to do. I think that you understand all this. I think that you understand that the small children can't be quiet and pay attention for long and you love them anyway. I think you understand that parents get stressed by trying to make sure that their kids behave themselves and you love them anyway. I think you understand the people that are upset by what they perceive to be inappropriate behaviour and you love them anyway. I think that it must grieve you that we can't find a path down the middle.

Maybe it's just how it is. We are not perfect, after all. Our church is made up of imperfect people and so things are bound not to run smoothly. We're bound to annoy each other. Is that it?  Sometimes try as we might we can't see things as others see them. We assess and we criticise and we judge. We all do it. We shouldn't but we do.

I'm sorry.

Maybe I should just accept that life is difficult with young children even in the bosom of my church family, and get on with it. Many's the time I've left in tears because of this dilemma. Perhaps my expectations are the ones that require adjustment. Maybe I am looking for too much. Perhaps I should just be thankful for any sparkling moments of true worship that I manage in the middle of it all. Maybe this really is the only way forward. After all, they'll grow up. They won't always be so small and then I know that I'll miss their antics and wish that they were six and four again. Next year and the year after will have it's own challenges.

Maybe we all just have to turn up each week and do our best and smile when we can. And when it gets too much, we can leave, can't we?