Once upon a time, back in the day, when my kidrens were still knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper, my arm could still be twisted to get me to attend Sunday church services. My son, David, must have been around 4 which would have put my daughter, Keely, at 8. We were living in Oklahoma City and we attended a Baptist church fairly regularly. Sporadically before the main sermon the preacher would have a children’s story. In the front of the church was a low stage with steps leading up to the pulpit. He would sit at the front of this stage and ask the children of the congregation to gather around him.
This particular Sunday he did that, made his invitation to the children, and off rushed our two kids. I do not remember exactly what the story was about, but it did involve a cookie jar and partaking of the contents unauthorized.
The preacher looked at Keely and asked her, “Do y’all have a cookie jar at your house?”
To which she replied, “No.” Then she brightly added, “No, but we have a cookie bowl and Daddy gets into it all the time.”
The whole church burst out into laughter and turned to see me slinking down in my pew.
