We’d only been in our new ward a few weeks when a flustered Primary counselor tapped me on the shoulder in Sunday school. She whispered that they were missing a primary teacher and asked if I would please be a last-minute substitute for the four-year-old class. I told her I would and asked when it started. She said, “Five minutes ago.”
The counselor showed me to the classroom and handed me a manual. She told me the lesson number and that someone would tap on the door five minutes before the end of class. Then with a quick, “Okay children, be good for Sister Lewis,” she hurried out the door. Six little faces watched the door close behind her and then turned curiously to me.
I smiled and told them my name and a little about myself and then, as I had them introduce themselves to me, I skimmed the lesson. The opening said to first review last week’s lesson, which was on the Resurrection.
By the time we had had our opening prayer I had a rough lesson plan in my head. I’d go over the main points, tell them a story, and then we’d play games for the rest of the time. That’s all you can really do with four-year-olds anyway. I began, “Now last week you talked about the resurrection. Do you remember what the resurrection is?” Lots of head shakes. Of course they didn’t remember. No one ever remembers last week’s lesson.
So I started, “Well, we know that someday we all will die—” and that’s as far as I got.
“What!?” A little boy with an untucked shirt yelled this question at me.
I thought he hadn’t heard. “Well, Travis, we know that someday we are all going to die—”
He jumped out of his seat and yelled again, “We’re all going to die? To DIE?!”
“Um, yes,” I said, a little startled by the outright fear in his voice. Also, by the way the other kids were now looking at me. “Everyone on earth has a body that someday will die.”
That answer was not what Travis was looking for. He screamed, “I don’t want to die!” And then he kept on screaming it. Over and over.
I think I could have calmed Travis down, if not for a little girl in a blue dress with a very neat braid named Emily, who made her way over to my chair in an instant. She placed her hand on my knee and looked up into my face very earnestly. She said, her voice breaking a little on the words, “But not my mom, right? My mommy won’t die, will she?”
How was I supposed to answer that? “Well, uh, actually everyone will die. Even her. But not for a long time, okay?” I watched with fascinated horror as the tears welled up in her eyes. In seconds she and two other kids were sobbing. Tyler was still screaming. Another boy had crawled under a chair. The last little girl was sitting very still on her chair, which was a relief to me until I looked at her face, and I tell you what, it was grim.
The room had descended into chaos. As I looked around at all the hysterical kids, several thoughts went through my mind. First of all, this was supposed to be a review. How had they not absorbed this information last Sunday, or ANY time in the four years previously that they had been going to church? This is pretty basic stuff. Why was this particular day the day they had decided to pay attention?
Second, for their first encounter with the reality that everyone must die, they were reacting pretty rationally. Sure, they were having an existential crisis—but death is scary. I suppose if I had never understood it before, I would react similarly. I felt some compassion for them.
Third, enough is enough, and I had to put a stop to this craziness.
“Okay, everyone.” I said in my best I-am-an-adult-with-great-authority voice. “Everyone sit down. Calm down. Everything is okay.”
Emily with the neat braid looked up at me, her eyes huge and betrayed. “Okay? Okay? How is it possibly okay?”
And that gave me pause. Suddenly I entered a little existential crisis of my own. How was it okay? Maybe I was just hardened to the truth of my own death. Maybe we should all be crying about this. It seemed very important that I answer this girl as honestly as I could, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Her mother was dying (eventually), and I was telling her to calm down. Why was everything okay? Death is scary. Someday everything we love and hold dear will be taken from us. There will probably be amazing pain. It’s not okay. It’s horrific. Suddenly I and six preschoolers were staring it right in the face. My heart started beating very quickly, my palms started sweating, and I realized I was afraid.
I stammered and in desperation I looked down at the lesson and read the next line. I breathed out a huge breath, then looked up at the children and smiled.
“Listen everyone. It is okay. It’s better than okay. We will all die, it’s true.” I put up my hands to quiet the little half sobs that erupted at this. “But we will all be brought back to life. We will be brought back to life with new and better bodies. Because of Jesus. Jesus loved us so much that he died for us and then came back to life so that we could all come back to life too. Even your mom. Because of Jesus, death is not the end at all.”
I told them this, not as a grown up might talk to a child. Not even like a teacher talks to students. I told them the way I felt it: like a messenger bringing good news.
I kind of held my breath and waited for a response. It was amazing. They all gave this collective sigh of relief. They wiped off their tears, smiling at each other with unabashed joy. Two girls patted each other on the back in congratulations and Travis gave my leg a squeeze of gratitude. The grim-faced girl continued to sit in silence, but she lifted her eyebrows at me, as if to say, “You couldn’t have started with that?”
It was the most intense moment I’ve ever had at church. I’ve never seen anyone as grateful for the resurrection as those little four-year-olds in that windowless classroom.
I am not one to romanticize childhood; I don’t think of children as angels. I know they often smell bad and eat their own boogers. But something children do really well is believe things completely. Right after they met me, they were willing to believe me, first when I told them they would one day cease to exist and then, a few minutes later, when I assured them that they would actually live forever. I had never been in the room when someone started to believe either of those things, much less both. It was quite the emotional roller coaster for them, and they took me along with them for the ride. I have known the doctrine of the resurrection my entire life (or at least presumably since this same lesson from when I was a four-year-old), and it wasn’t until that moment that it sunk in that Christ saved us all. Even your mom. Especially your mom.
Anna Lewis
The counselor showed me to the classroom and handed me a manual. She told me the lesson number and that someone would tap on the door five minutes before the end of class. Then with a quick, “Okay children, be good for Sister Lewis,” she hurried out the door. Six little faces watched the door close behind her and then turned curiously to me.
I smiled and told them my name and a little about myself and then, as I had them introduce themselves to me, I skimmed the lesson. The opening said to first review last week’s lesson, which was on the Resurrection.
By the time we had had our opening prayer I had a rough lesson plan in my head. I’d go over the main points, tell them a story, and then we’d play games for the rest of the time. That’s all you can really do with four-year-olds anyway. I began, “Now last week you talked about the resurrection. Do you remember what the resurrection is?” Lots of head shakes. Of course they didn’t remember. No one ever remembers last week’s lesson.
So I started, “Well, we know that someday we all will die—” and that’s as far as I got.
“What!?” A little boy with an untucked shirt yelled this question at me.
I thought he hadn’t heard. “Well, Travis, we know that someday we are all going to die—”
He jumped out of his seat and yelled again, “We’re all going to die? To DIE?!”
“Um, yes,” I said, a little startled by the outright fear in his voice. Also, by the way the other kids were now looking at me. “Everyone on earth has a body that someday will die.”
That answer was not what Travis was looking for. He screamed, “I don’t want to die!” And then he kept on screaming it. Over and over.
I think I could have calmed Travis down, if not for a little girl in a blue dress with a very neat braid named Emily, who made her way over to my chair in an instant. She placed her hand on my knee and looked up into my face very earnestly. She said, her voice breaking a little on the words, “But not my mom, right? My mommy won’t die, will she?”
How was I supposed to answer that? “Well, uh, actually everyone will die. Even her. But not for a long time, okay?” I watched with fascinated horror as the tears welled up in her eyes. In seconds she and two other kids were sobbing. Tyler was still screaming. Another boy had crawled under a chair. The last little girl was sitting very still on her chair, which was a relief to me until I looked at her face, and I tell you what, it was grim.
The room had descended into chaos. As I looked around at all the hysterical kids, several thoughts went through my mind. First of all, this was supposed to be a review. How had they not absorbed this information last Sunday, or ANY time in the four years previously that they had been going to church? This is pretty basic stuff. Why was this particular day the day they had decided to pay attention?
Second, for their first encounter with the reality that everyone must die, they were reacting pretty rationally. Sure, they were having an existential crisis—but death is scary. I suppose if I had never understood it before, I would react similarly. I felt some compassion for them.
Third, enough is enough, and I had to put a stop to this craziness.
“Okay, everyone.” I said in my best I-am-an-adult-with-great-authority voice. “Everyone sit down. Calm down. Everything is okay.”
Emily with the neat braid looked up at me, her eyes huge and betrayed. “Okay? Okay? How is it possibly okay?”
And that gave me pause. Suddenly I entered a little existential crisis of my own. How was it okay? Maybe I was just hardened to the truth of my own death. Maybe we should all be crying about this. It seemed very important that I answer this girl as honestly as I could, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Her mother was dying (eventually), and I was telling her to calm down. Why was everything okay? Death is scary. Someday everything we love and hold dear will be taken from us. There will probably be amazing pain. It’s not okay. It’s horrific. Suddenly I and six preschoolers were staring it right in the face. My heart started beating very quickly, my palms started sweating, and I realized I was afraid.
I stammered and in desperation I looked down at the lesson and read the next line. I breathed out a huge breath, then looked up at the children and smiled.
“Listen everyone. It is okay. It’s better than okay. We will all die, it’s true.” I put up my hands to quiet the little half sobs that erupted at this. “But we will all be brought back to life. We will be brought back to life with new and better bodies. Because of Jesus. Jesus loved us so much that he died for us and then came back to life so that we could all come back to life too. Even your mom. Because of Jesus, death is not the end at all.”
I told them this, not as a grown up might talk to a child. Not even like a teacher talks to students. I told them the way I felt it: like a messenger bringing good news.
I kind of held my breath and waited for a response. It was amazing. They all gave this collective sigh of relief. They wiped off their tears, smiling at each other with unabashed joy. Two girls patted each other on the back in congratulations and Travis gave my leg a squeeze of gratitude. The grim-faced girl continued to sit in silence, but she lifted her eyebrows at me, as if to say, “You couldn’t have started with that?”
It was the most intense moment I’ve ever had at church. I’ve never seen anyone as grateful for the resurrection as those little four-year-olds in that windowless classroom.
I am not one to romanticize childhood; I don’t think of children as angels. I know they often smell bad and eat their own boogers. But something children do really well is believe things completely. Right after they met me, they were willing to believe me, first when I told them they would one day cease to exist and then, a few minutes later, when I assured them that they would actually live forever. I had never been in the room when someone started to believe either of those things, much less both. It was quite the emotional roller coaster for them, and they took me along with them for the ride. I have known the doctrine of the resurrection my entire life (or at least presumably since this same lesson from when I was a four-year-old), and it wasn’t until that moment that it sunk in that Christ saved us all. Even your mom. Especially your mom.
Anna Lewis
Eugene, Oregon
circa 2015
Comments
Post a Comment