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Posted By Smockity Frocks On September 16, 2007 @ 3:10 pm In Uncategorized | 15 Comments
Have you ever felt like you have been trapped in a place you knew you didn’t want to be? Like you really were needed in other places if only you could get unstuck from the place where you were?
I’m not talking metaphorically, here. I’m not that deep. This is literal.
Our church building has a “cry room” in the back with a window that looks out onto the auditorium and a speaker system so that you can hear the sermon. That is, if you can manage to make anything out over the crying.
This morning after, oh, I don’t know, the preacher’s third or fourth word into the sermon, it became evident to all that the one year old was not going to be letting me listen, and I felt the need to take her to the cry room to allow the rest of the congregation that luxury.
When I got back there, I closed the door, as usual, and waited for her to quiet down. At this point, I should mention that my husband was not able to be with me during the worship service, so I felt a particular urgency to return to our pew.
While we were waiting, I noticed that my oldest had come to the back to tell me something. She came to the door of the cry room, which has a little window, and mouthed something to me. I motioned for her to come in, and she wiggled the doorknob, but nothing happened. I got up and tried to open the door from my side, but still nothing.
Madison let me know through the window that one of the little ones needed a tissue, so I told her to go ahead and get one from the bathroom. While she went to fetch it, I continued to try to get the doorknob unjammed – to no avail.
When she came out of the restroom with the tissues, I motioned her over to me and asked her to try the doorknob again. Nothing.
Now, I was beginning to realize that the door was firmly stuck and we would need help to get it open. So I started to tell Madison to relay my situation to a friend sitting near the other children.
Then, something happened that happens most often when I am pregnant. I began to laugh hysterically and couldn’t stop. Or speak. Or breathe. I could only shake my head and slap my leg and randomly wave my arms about in a lame attempt at a sort of sign language for people with poor muscle control. All the while Madison was saying, “What, Mommy? What is it?” Then, she caught the giggles herself and the baby was looking at us as if maybe her demons had not been cast into a herd of swine, but instead into her mother!
She finally caught on to what I was trying to say which was, “Go tell…..Mrs. Swinney…..that I’m….stuck in……the cry room.” I saw her go back into the auditorium still giggling and lean over to give my message to Mrs. Swinney. Then, I saw Mrs. Swinney smile and nod knowingly as if to say, “Yes, I have felt stuck in that room many times myself.”
Oh great! I could see that Mrs. Swinney thought I was only feeling stuck in the figurative sense. (She doesn’t know that I’m not that deep.)
I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I could see a familiar 3 yr. old blond girl barely visible above the pew back vigorously waving a roughly made paper fan above her head. I had a feeling that wasn’t the only extra curricular activity going on in our pew. I needed to be back in there, but the doorknob was not cooperating!
Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the service was nearing an end and I saw a couple get up to leave before the closing prayer. I knocked frantically on the little window in the door and waved my arms to signal for help. They came over and realized I was stuck and tried their best to get me out, but even they couldn’t get the door open! T
hey went back into the auditorium to get more help. By this time the service was over and there was a small crowd gathered at my little prison.
All told, it took 4 or 5 grown men, a whole lot of spectators, and a screwdriver to completely remove the doorknob and let me out.
So, overall it was a very worshipful and edifying experience. Just don’t ask me what the sermon was about.
I hereby attest that the above story is true and factual. I can’t make this stuff up, people.
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