Earlier this week, my children decided to put on some temporary tattoos. The girls decorated their cheeks with glittery butterflies, and the boys snazzed up their bellies with dinosaurs. As I was helping the girls with their hair before church this morning, I decided the haggard butterfly remains should probably be scrubbed away. “They’re kind of messy and don’t really look like butterflies anymore,” I explained. “We don’t want them to be distractions in church.” (I’m holy like that.)
So at the fellowship time after Sunday School, the older twins’ Sunday School teacher said she had a story for me.
Today in Sunday School, they were reviewing the gospel story. “I was really getting into the story: Jesus died for us on the cross and rose again. This is the most important story! This is the heart of the Bible! This is where it’s at!” when she saw Miriam’s (4) arm shoot up. “Yes, Miriam?”
“I had a butterfly tattoo on my cheek but Mama scrubbed it off but you can still see some of the glitter. Can you see the glitter? But I don’t have my tattoo anymore.”
The teacher was trying to steer Miriam back to the lesson when she saw Abraham (4) lifting his blue plaid button-down shirt, exposing one pale, pudgy belly with a wrinkled dinosaur. “But I still have mine!”