This morning was an unusual Sunday. The kids' Sunday morning routine normally takes all my energy and attention if I want to arrive on time to church. For some reason, this morning they were mostly ready earlier than normal--mostly ready means bathed, fingernails cut, dressed, but no shoes (big red flag of course here.) I decided I might have time to do some extra self-pampering: dying my hair, shaving my legs, painting my fingernails. So I ignored the kids and kept to myself in my bathroom. As time went on, I increasingly became aware of an unusual quiet stillness. In conjunction with the ever ticking clock, quiet before church is a very bad sign.
Quickly I brushed on my mascara, swept on my lipstick, grabbed my shoes, and called at the top of the stairs with the most positive voice I could muster, "Kids, time to go." No answer. I tottled downstairs in my wobbly tan heels, lifted the wooden blinds, and peeked out the window. By this point, we should have been driving out. We were going to be late.
Across and in the street nearly twenty Canadian geese squacked and pooped, waddling eagerly toward our children. As I watched, Henry's arm cocked back, and then chunks of white rained down on the geese, and they greedily scrambled for the bread Henry chucked. In his hands was the mostly empty Whitewheat Bread bag, which I bought yesterday for two dollars. His toes were bare. But on his face was a precious, gleeful smile.
Big surprise: we were a few minutes late to church, but I think it may have been worth the extra entertainment.
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