Disasters in Youth Ministry, The Prequel

I told this story at dinner last night and realized that I have not told it in this forum. I’m going to write this as a part of the Disasters in Youth Ministry series, even though I, technically, was not doing youth ministry at the time.

In early 1995 I was a junior at Auburn University. I was also on the cusp of being a married man. Since being married meant being a responsible adult, I began a job search. That search led me to the Job Board in Mary Martin Hall.

The job board was a great resource for student’s looking for work. Local employers would call about a job opening and the staff at Mary Martin would pin the notice to the board. The board was divided into two sections: Campus Jobs and Off-Campus Jobs. Misty and I stopped by Mary Martin every couple of days to scan the sea of notices.

OK, I can tell already that I am getting wordy. I am in the process of telling a 1000-word story in 4000 words. (I do that some times.) Let me stop. Take a breath. *Inhale* *Exhale* And get to the point.

I found, applied for, and accepted a job as Children and Youth Minister at Wesley Memorial United Methodist Church in Opelika, AL. In this position I would minister to children from 4 to 13. I led MYF (though it wasn’t really youth since they were aged 7-13.) I organized activities. I taught children’s church.

The last of those duties became my nemesis. Children’s Church was, for all intents and purposes, a distraction for the kids while the adults listened to the sermon. I took the children 3-6 years old to a classroom behind the sanctuary. Once there I tried my best to get them to sit still and listen to a short lesson. After the lesson the kids spent the rest of our time coloring. I spent the remaining time keeping the kids relatively quiet and at the table. In other words, I was herding cats.

Most of the kids were fine. Scarlett was a loud, brash redhead. She had two older brothers, but still ruled the house. She was not one to take anything lying down.

Lara was a delicate little girl. She was tiny, even for a 4 year-old. My best description of Lara would be ‘very quiet.’ I think I was there a year before she talked to me.

Then there was Mark. I can best sum up Mark’s behavior with one command I gave him more times than I care to recall. “Mark, pull your pants up.” Mark loved to pull down his pants. He was the original “Pants on the Ground.” When I say ‘pants’, I mean everything. Countless times I turned to find Mark behind me with his 5-year-old parts dancing in the breeze.

On a particular Sunday I took the three of them (Scarlett, Lara, and Mark) from the sanctuary into the Sunday School room. We trudged through our lesson. I’m sure I told Mark to pull his pants up at least twice. Then it was time for coloring.

This was the trickiest time in Children’s Church. Coloring can only hold a 4 to 5 year old’s attention for so long. I tried to keep everyone engaged by talking with them as they colored. I would ask questions about their family. I asked about their pets. I asked about their favorite foods. If I was lucky one of them would have a funny story to tell, and the other kids would listen with rapt attention. If I were unlucky an argument would break out.

On this day I had a line of questioning planned beforehand. Lara’s mother had just given birth to a baby boy. I hoped to get Lara to share a little about her brother. Surely there was nothing arguable there.

As we colored, I asked Lara, “You have a little brother now don’t you?”

Nod.

“Is he cute?”

Nod.

“Do you like him?”

Pause. Then a nod.

“Does he cry a lot?”

Nod.

The conversation was falling flat. I was ready to give up, but first I had one more question.

“Did you go to the hospital when he was born?”

Lara looked at me. She nodded, and then she opened her mouth to speak. I prepared for one of those cute, funny “Kids Say the Darndest Things” type of quotes. Something like, “The stork dropped him right into my mommy’s room,” or, “My daddy fell on the floor.”

There was no way I could anticipate or prepare for what she actually said.

The room went silent and Lara spoke. She spoke louder and clearer than any words I’d heard pass over her lips.

“He came out of my mommy’s butt.”

A chill of terror raced up my spine. My eyes were frozen on this sweet little porcelain doll face that just threw my brain into turmoil. My mind raced. What can I say to douse the tiny flame before it grows into an inferno? Maybe the kids didn’t hear. I wanted to look around. I wanted to see if the other kids heard what she said. I was afraid to move. The room was silent with tension. Finally the silence was broken.

Mark’s voice came from behind me. He was apparently preparing for another fling of exhibitionism. When he spoke, he spoke with an indignance usually reserved for a suspect responding to the accusation of his interrogator. Upon hearing his voice I braced for the worst. I was right to do so.

“HE DID NOT!!!”

Oh no. What do I do? Someone’s going to ask a question. What do I tell them? I can’t tell 4 and 5 year olds where baby’s come from. I’m not sure I even know where baby’s come from. I couldn’t even think of a way to change the subject. I was frozen.

I prayed more fervently than Daniel prayed in the lions’ den. I prayed more earnestly that Jonah prayed in the belly of the fish. I prayed almost as passionately as Jesus in Gethsemane. “Oh God, please let this cup pass from my hands.”

I waited for Lara to respond. She didn’t.

I waited for Scarlett, who I was pretty sure did know where babies come from, to chime in. She didn’t.

Finally I looked at Mark. I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

The kids all went back to their coloring. Mark sat down at the table.

I have not experienced a more profound answer to prayer in the 15 years since. I’m not sure I ever will.