Every church going adult will agree that it is very important to take your children to church while they are young. The reason is that regular Sunday school and church attendance early in life provides the basic foundation for Biblical knowledge. A good Sunday school program also reinforces basic Christian values taught at home.

My husband is a minister, so our two boys were taken to church from the time they were a week or two weeks old. They grew up hearing the old hymns and the Bible being read and quoted.

Children are funny. They learn by imitating what they see or are exposed to. And, much of their learning is by osmosis. Much of the time it is apparent they may not be actively listening to what is going on around them. However, much to the parent’s amazement and oftentimes embarrassment, the child can very accurately repeat information that seems too advanced for their years or was not intended for their ears.

My husband is a charismatic preacher. Sometimes while he is preaching he might jump up on the front pew. That can be quite an attention getter for ones not used to such enthusiastic presentation of the Gospel.

My two year old loved to play preacher. One day he lined up three of his little chairs. With his little Bible open he stood in front of them to preach. About thirty seconds into his message he ran and jumped up on one of the chairs. He lost his balance and the chair toppled over. Hastily jumping to his feet he said, ” Sing another verse!” Don’t try to tell me children do not pay attention. He had even learned quick recovery from his father.

Many Sundays, however, I wondered if my attending church with two babies under three years old was really beneficial. Oftentimes I left the church with no recollection of what was said or done during the service. The two little ones demanded my full attention.

I remember the first church my husband pastored. The babies and I would sit on the second pew on the right side of the church. A wonderful lady, Miss Lula, sat on the pew with me. She was so good to help me keep the boys pinned in and occupied so they did not cause too much disturbance during the service.

The baby was about six months old. One Sunday in the middle of the sermon it became quite evident to anyone in my immediate area that the baby needed a diaper change. Babies are like that. They innately choose the most inopportune time to take care of business. Many times it is during a meal, but that day it was during the message.

The restroom was located in the foyer of the building. So gathering up the diaper bag and baby I headed down the aisle to the restroom. I left the two year old in the care of the my wonderful seat buddy.

The restroom was quite small. It had a sink and three stalls, but no place to change the baby. So, I went into a stall and lowered the lid to the toilet seat. Then, sitting on the lid I balanced the baby on my lap and proceeded to change the diaper.

Halfway through the process I hear the pitter patter of little feet enter the restroom. I knew exactly who it was. In a minute the footsteps retreated. I drew a sign of relief that he had decided to return to my friend on the second pew.

I finished the diaper change and had almost all the baby’s clothes back on when it happened. From somewhere in the parking lot a car horn started blaring. Terror constricting my heart, I jerked up the half dressed baby and ran for the door.

Now, a gentleman in the church had a little red LUV truck. My two year old had fallen in love with that truck. It was much smaller than a regular sized pickup and he thought it was just right for him.

When I got outside there was my toddler behind the steering wheel of the LUV truck happily blowing the horn. I jerked open the door of the truck. Grabbing him up with my free arm I hurried to my car.

The car had a bench seat in front. Not the kind with the console in the middle. I opened the door and put the perpetrator and the diaper bag into the front seat. Then, with the baby in my arms, I climbed in beside him.

By now I was in tears. I was sobbing. Standing in the seat beside me, my two year old gently stroked my hair and in a tiny soothing voice kept repeating, “But Mommie, I wasn’t blowing at you. Don’t cry. I wasn’t blowing at you.”