Does Sunday Look Like This To Anyone Else?

I think our church is only missing one thing.

And, to be honest, I’ve never seen this one thing in any church where I have ever attended.

I’m not even sure what it should be called.

But I know what its purpose will be.

What every church needs is a detox room.

A space between the nursery and the sanctuary.

A Something In Between.

A space to help you move from Chaos to Calm.

Some passage to buffer the dichotomy of the two extremes.

Seriously, if I was a nursery worker I wouldn’t want to see me enter the yellow two-year-old room.

The passing off of Wilde Otto Fox alone exhausts me.

There is always The Crying.  The Clinging.  The Tears – drippy and salty and consistent.

(And how I have come to love the nursery workers.

Their kindness.  Their experienced quick reach for my screaming son.  Their assurance that after I leave he’s always “just fine”.  Their miraculous ability to keep their frustration over the loud wail of children from showing in their eyes.)

Bergen Hawkeye never wants to be the first to be dropped off.

Piper Finn takes three attempts nearly every week to remind her that she does, in fact, love her class.

And by the end

with all the dropping off and the peeling out of my arms and the subtle threats to behave better

when I turn right at the end of the kid’s hall, I’m not ready to head down the path to the sanctuary at all.

I just want to get in the car and drive home.

I’m already done.

Which is why I need that Decompression Room.

Actually, I guess the hall from Insanity to Peace is rather long.

Maybe that was intentional.

Perhaps the design of the church was crafted by a parent.

If you see me in that hallway,

post-drop-off, pre-worship,

you should probably ignore the twitching of my head,

the glazed look of my eyes

and the mutterings of my mouth.

Talk to me again after the service.

After the Pick Up process,

which is always exponentially better than the Drop Off.