Some years ago, new residents in town, we ventured into church one Sunday. There were five of us: a set of parents, sufficiently presentable to fit in well in just about any club, and three cute-as-a-button children: fourth-grade Chrissie, second-grade Chuckie, and Rachel, my three-year-old niece who had just come to live with us. Just your normal All-American family goes to church scenario.
Noticing an area of empty pews, we made our way down the aisle and, the children arrayed between us, took our seats. Only later would we learn we had elected to sit in no-mans land, signaling, for all the world to see, that we were rank newcomers.
The service went passably along, and after the hymns, they asked the children to come forward for the childrens sermon. Our three kids eagerly joined their compatriots up front.
The smiling minister had no idea. Nothing got past Chrissie, but she typically didnt share any public expressions of her observations. On the other hand, Chuckie, while noticing far less, often recognized a need for his contribution to the discussion at hand. He had, for good or for ill, also inherited my voice which, unmodulated, carries to the next...
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