it was a good friday

All Fridays are good, in my opinion. But Christopher got off work early yesterday and we went downtown for a capital-Good Friday choral meditation at the Cathedral of the Madeleine.

We arrived early enough to watch the choir walk in before they disappeared behind the screen up front. I had missed the memo that it was a children's choir. Like small children.

Also missed the memo that they would sound perfect and other-worldly. Third graders are not supposed to sound like that. In third grade, I learned to play "Hot Cross Buns" on the recorder.

Our own little one wanted to join them. As soon as the singing began, she started her own little croon. And the acoustics in there are just as amazing for the congregation as they are for the choir. Her goos weren't particularly loud, but I knew that as soon as she realized the echo going on in there, she would let loose.

Also, I worried about her noise when I didn't hear a single peep from any other kid in there (besides the angels up front). Do Catholics know a secret for keeping their kids quiet that Mormons don't?

She didn't make it through the whole thing and we had to leave early. But we didn't mind. There was just something Good about walking around downtown on a spring afternoon with a one-year-old who wasn't embarrassed or nervous for one second about reaching her arms up to a vaulted cathedral ceiling and singing, "Oooh, oooooooh."

pucker up

We don't have any cute, funny kids of our own to blog about. So, we have to write about other people's kids. Good thing we went to nursery today. I think that one of the girls in our class may have watched too many Disney videos. In our lesson, we asked the 3-year-olds what they could do to be more like Jesus. Ellen said, "Kiss." And then she scooted over to sit a little too close to one of the nursery boys. Speechless; I didn't even know what Jesus would do with that answer.

We love nursery

Here's Luke making a fishy face.
Here's mine. When Luke saw mine, he said, "You're funny brother West." This kid already speaks in complete sentences, and outwits me when I try to get him to put his toys away.
Kathy is the fishy face champion.
At the end of class I tug them around on a blanket. It's my only workout of the week.
We love these kids. We want one. We're thinking of stealing one so Kathy doesn't have to go through labor. What do you guys think of that blond kid?

nursery is true

Every Sunday, Christopher and I work in the nursery while the grown-ups go to Sunday School meetings. For two hours, we make towers and imaginary cakes, sing songs with hand actions, drink out of miniature dixie cups, and blow bubbles. Our lesson consists of a 45-second sermon on the benefits of sharing.

Grown-ups should take a lesson from the little guys. Imagine it. Pretzels for Sunday School snack time—just the way church was always meant to be.

talking: the lost art

Christopher and I dropped by a neighbor’s house last night to pick up a bag of things she needed to give us. I thought it would be pop-in-quick-and-take-off moment. It wasn’t.

She invited us in and made us feel so at home that when she went to answer the phone, we looked through books on her shelves and went out back with her son to hunt for potato bugs. We ate grapes in the kitchen while she made dinner and talked about things that actually mattered. We went home four hours later.

It made me miss cultures that invite people in and take time to talk to them for real—Brazil, Hawaii, my parents' house. Opportunity for epiphany is opened up in ways that just aren't available in a conversation like this:

—Hi. How are you?
—Good. How are you?
—Pretty good. I don’t like the rain these days.
—Yeah, me neither. Been cold.
—Yeah. What’s going on with you?
—Nothing much. Working, going to school. You?
—Just working.
—Cool.
—Yeah.
—Well, see you later.

Forty-three words. Lots of words to say a whole lot of nothin'.