When my daughter Trinity was eight, she loudly announced in our church parking lot that her Sunday School shoes were (and I quote), “Hell on my hooves!” There was a stunned silence, followed by some suppressed parental laughter, and finally a somber lecture issued with twitching lips on using the word ‘hell,’ especially steps outside a place of worship.
I will admit to you now, gentle reader, that every single time someone complains about their shoes I mentally say, “Wow. They must be hell on your hooves.” Then I smile widely leaving countless people wondering, no doubt, why I find pleasure in their foot pain.
Last night we were leaving after a church activity when we stopped in the parking lot to talk with some friends. They issued us an invitation for dinner, which we happily accepted. As we continued our way to the car, Trinity mentioned, rather inappropriately yet accurately, that having someone make us dinner was an extremely cheap way of eating. She gestured with her hand, “All it’s going to cost us is the time to play a game with those people.”
Is it the church parking lot? My daughter? Our parenting? I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to muzzle that child whenever we are in the vicinity of our church building. Just to be safe.