On the second Saturday morning of every month, you’ll find me in the middle of a gaggle of one and two-year olds as I attempt to teach them about Jesus.
In our church, the kids are taught by volunteers – usually women – who have day jobs and who spend part of Friday night trying to figure out what church outfit will work with the bending, lifting, squatting and reaching that is required when working with little kids.
Today the kids were even more out of control than usual. I blame Daylight Savings. Everyone wanted a rake even when it wasn’t rake time, and everyone wanted to throw the pretend vegetable instead of pretend to share them.
At the end of the lesson, when I was pretty sure none of the kids, or parents, had learned anything about the seasons or God’s creation, I decided that each child should rock in the scarecrow’s chair wearing the scarecrow’s hat and we would sing Jesus Loves Me.
Most of the kids know the words, or at least the tune, and for the briefest of seconds, in the midst of the chaos that is beginners’ Sabbath School, I felt a sense of calm. All of these parents and step-parents and single parents and grandparents had brought their child to this place to learn the only thing that matters: Jesus Loves Me.