Three little boy butts lined up in a row,

In the pew between their Daddy and me. 

That's how we began the Mother's Day show

At the church just down the street.

We decided to bring our boys into "big church" with us this past Sunday morning.  It was Mother's Day, after all.  It went better than I had expected, and poorly enough to have caused some measure of embarrassment.   You see, before you get any false notions about what sort of boys we paraded into our traditional (a.k.a. geriatric) service, know that our boys are not the quiet, orderly, hands-in-their-lap sort of boys.  They are roughians.  Animals.  Strong-willed beasts that try our boundaries and our nerves at every turn.  SITTING IN CHURCH WITH THEM FOR AN HOUR WAS NOT A PLEASANT EXPERIENCE!  Not for us, not for them, and likely not for the dear ladies who intermittently patted my shoulder encouragingly throughout the service.

Yet...

That said, we have decided to have them with us again this coming Sunday.  And the next.  And the next.  Since we're at church for two services it works for the boys to be with us the first hour, then attend their Sunday School class afterwards.  But the question remains,  WHY?   Why not wait a few more years before bringing them into "big church"?  Why not wait until they are a bit more... well, mature?  

Why?  Because of that itty-bitty "yet," at the end of my pronounced exclamation above.

I have realized slowly over the past 12 months that I am waiting for the boys to experience some miraculous transformation, through the passage of time; a maturing to happen if you will.  But what has hit me is that maturity doesn't happen naturally.  Look at the adolescence all around us in our culture today.  Maturing is done to them.  Maturity happens when just the right amount of pressure is applied.  A purposeful, loving, encouraging, hope-filled pressure as new responsibilities are added upon their capable shoulders.

My husband and I have committed to raising them, training them, and bringing them up to maturity. To manhood.  

Sally Clarkson often says , something along the lines of, "Without the influence of parents, children will go the way of their culture."  So, you see, I want to influence my children into maturity.  Into the folding of little hands. Into the "Yes, Ma'am" and "Thank you, Sir," eye contact and good listening ears.  I want to graciously apply instruction, and higher and higher expectations, and nobler and nobler admonitions.  "You can do this!" I want them to hear my voice as I place the challenge of maturity upon their young shoulders.  "You are able to sit here by my side for 45 minutes and do what others around you are able to do... listen.  And if you can't bring yourself to listen, you must simply practice self-control and. sit.  still."

The one on his Father's right yawns dramatically, with arms outstretched.  The middle oneslides off the pew and sinks down to the ground.  The last in line is by my side, and looks up at me with a pained expression.  

I smile, remembering the warmth of my own Mama's body, holding me close in church. And so I reach around him, pat his other side so that he's tucked tight against me.  Just the right amount of pressure, indeed.