Faith Is Like Mustardy Seeds

Church is always an adventure with any kids.  My kids especially.  On any given Sunday, someone is pouting, laughing, crying, puking, poking, or yelling.
March 28, 2010, was an exception.  We were actually good.  We were quiet.  We were reverent.  We were still.  It was nothing short of miraculous.
Two lines before the end of the closing song, I was loading pencils and books into the diaper bag, thinking, "Wow.  We made it."
Then, Ben let out a fairly loud gasp.  Eve had managed to fill his lap with mustardy goo.  And when I say fill his lap, I mean FILL HIS LAP.  We barely had five seconds to react before the closing prayer started.  I frantically searched the diaper bag for the wipes and futilely dabbed at the mess.
Amen and fifteen wipes later, Ben was able to stand up without polluting his surroundings.  I whisked them both home, all the while listening to Ben:  "Ooh.  It's sticking to my leg.  I think it soaked through to my underwear.  Well, it missed my tie.  Can I shower before I go back?"

We went our separate ways upstairs--he to scrounge clean clothes from his brother and dad, me to clean up Baby Notorious Poops.  In all that excitement, she had somehow managed to avoid herself.  Her socks and shoes were clean, her dress pristine.  I still can't figure out the physics of that one.

Ben loves babies. Truly loves them. When they're newborn, he's not afraid to hold and snuggle and tend.
When they're a little older, he loves to hold and snuggle and tickle.
Sunday may have changed him forever.