Accompanying this thought is a loud banshee-like wail similar to that of the 'Wendigo' in Steven King's 'Pet Semetary'. Everyone is looking at me pitifully and I am shamed into cooing a few well-chosen but utterly ineffective words to my distraught son, who is torn between two areas of separation anxiety. He simply doesn't know which way to go, so he, quite naturally, wails until somebody else fixes it.
Reluctantly, I give up my seat and take him through. Of course, the minute we get there, he decides that he hates me and shoves me back out of the door and into a church full of smirking people and an irritated yet charitable minister, who smiles wearily and halts until I shuffle back to my seat.
There is something to be said for the Church: no matter how awful the kids have been, and no matter how stressed I have been, they always want you to come back. Says something for Christianity, does that� |
