Shout it loud, and shout it proud!
With eight adorable tiny tots standing at attention around a small table in the center of the room, this mild-mannered freshman gave them a pep talk before they marched in a circle to triumphantly sing their theme song of the day.
“Let’s get this party started,” I declared. “Before we begin this glorious song, I’d like youns to get the movements down pat; so, you’ll be able to sing for the Lord and look snazzy doing it.”
“When marching, you need to get those legs up high,” I continued, demonstrating each and every movement. “Then pretend you’re riding on a horse before shooting a Tommy gun—like Al Capone back in the Roaring Twenties; and you can finish by flying a plane over your neighborhood.”
And don’t forget to salute at the end of the chorus.
“Are you crazy?” Dirk Arkwright asked, leaning over to whisper into my ear. “We can’t teach these kids to fire a machine gun like a 1920s Chicago-style mobster.”
“For crying out loud,” I retorted. “I’m quite certain they’ve never even heard of Al Capone, much less what he did for a living.”
“But they are Polly parrots,” Dirk adamantly stated, before giving one such example. “I could just hear it now, ‘Hey Johnny, what’d you learn in class today?’ ‘We learned about Al Capone and his Tommy gun.’”
Our butts would definitely be in a sling.
“Alright kids,” I said, clapping my hands to redirect their attention. “When it’s time to shoot the artillery, you can pretend like you’re shooting mommy and daddy with your water gun in the bathtub.”
“What did I do this time?” I quipped, looking at the Riverside track star’s hairy eyeball.
“Never mind!” he exclaimed, putting a hand to his face in frustration.
Were we teaching an aerobics class to a bunch of toddlers?
Heck no! My self-appointed guardian angel and I were teaching a new song to the wee ones of our congregation in children’s church.
I may never march in the infantry.
Ride in the cavalry.
Shoot the artillery.
I may never fly o’er the enemy.
But I’m in the Lord’s army!
Yes sir!
We were less than two weeks into the new school year when Dirk pulled me back into our makeshift bunkhouse at the close of another exciting Royal Rangers meeting the first Wednesday in September.
“Please, don’t kill me,” I pleaded, pressing myself up against the wall with one eye open. “I was only joking when I told the others you were singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ to the restroom mirror before our meeting started earlier tonight.”
“Very funny, Marcus Welby, M.D.,” he replied, motioning for me to join him at the table. “I’d like to talk to you about jumping into the rotation as one of the teachers for Tiny Tots Children’s Church.”
“I’m still a kid myself,” I shot back, with a look of concern splashed across my face. “And you want me to become a glorified Sunday school teacher?”
“Stop being so modest,” the newly minted high school junior said. “I’ve seen how you interact with the Straight Arrows, which is why I think you’d be a perfect candidate for the job.”
“That’s a big responsibility for a ninth grader,” I explained. “Besides, helping one of the little boys with a merit badge is way different than teaching children’s church.”
“Laura Ingalls Wilder wasn’t much older than you when she became a schoolteacher,” he smirked, knowing she was my all-time favorite author.
You really do know how to pull on my heartstrings, don’t you?
“Did I fail to mention that you and I would be doing this as a team, so we’ll be spending even more time together,” noted the second-year Trail Ranger sporting a wide grin.
Where do I sign up?
After jumping in with both feet, this natural-born leader found it difficult to believe that it’s been a little over two months since I started my journey as a children’s church instructor.
“It feels like I’ve been doing this my entire life,” I reflected as my young charges shouted out the words to, I’m in the Lord’s Army and executed the movements with precision while marching around the kiddie table.
Once the little munchkins burned off some excess energy, they all intently listened to the Battle of Jericho as it played out on the flannelboard with my talented co-worker’s exceptional storytelling skills.
“Our theme song and this story are like special friends,” Dirk smiled, glancing at the quiet children sitting around the table. “Just like youns are God’s helpers who help stop mean words and unkind actions, the people in the story trusted God when they walked around the big wall.”
“The Israelites walked around the city once a day for six days,” he continued, giving more details of the miraculous story. “However, they marched around it seven times on the seventh day; after which the priests blew the trumpet, and the people shouted.”
Can you guess what happened next?
“The walls came tumbling down,” shouted the little whippersnappers as they jumped to their feet with excitement.
Shortly after playing follow the leader to the restroom for a much-needed potty break, these instructional collaborators fed our young scholars a scrumptious snack of milk and cookies and helped them make a paper trumpet before it was time to say farewell.
As the other children bolted from the room with their craft projects, one little boy with black hair tugged on my trousers.
“Me knows who Al Ca-pony is,” Franklin “Frankie” Mars revealed, leaning in like he was about to share state secrets. “Me and my sisters watched a movie about how he shot up all his M&M’s with a Tommy gun, but it’s ‘posed to be a secret.”
Do you mean enemies?
“That’s what me said,” snapped the four-year-old, narrowing his eyes accompanied by a protruding lower lip. “For a teacher, yous don’t listen berry good; so, yous bobbily need to get the wax out of them ears.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Crouching down, I kissed the little tyke’s pudgy cheeks and gave him a quick squeeze before he ran out of the room towards his sister Dorothy “Dot” Mars, who stood in the fellowship hall.
“If he tells too many people that secret, his mother’s bound to find out,” I guffawed, pushing all the chairs against the table.
“What’d I tell you,” Dirk surmised, taking down all the colorful pictures stuck to the felt board. “These kids are like little sponges, because they absorb every single thing you say to them; so, don’t be surprised if one of their parents confront you about Al Capone and his Tommy gun.”
“I’ll just tell them you were the one talking about machine guns and gangsters,” I quipped with a protruding tongue.
With that said, I darted from the room and Dirk gave chase.