Exercising our Gifts

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to go to church in the morning and he wasn’t too sure about the Children’s Program that night.

We had kidnapped Ethan at the beginning of his Christmas vacation which included the Sunday before Christmas.

He has not enjoyed our small country church, it is a simple country church and he is used to a choir made up of professionals (music is their profession outside of church). Since Grandpa is the pastor (which doesn’t faze Ethan one bit) he needed to come with us, or I would have to stay home with him.

First he said he was too tired to go to church. Then he decided that he didn’t really feel well enough to go to church. I told him that was fine, but then, of course, we would not be able to go to Old Country Buffet afterwards with Aunt Deb. It is amazing how quickly he felt both well enough and awake enough to attend church.

Ethan and I sat in the back of the church while the kids finished their ragged rehearsal and Grandpa greeted folks as they came in from the snowy cold. Ethan watched with interest as the kids straggled back to where we were sitting and struggled to remove their pajama-like costumes covered with spots and sporting a variety of tails or humps -for the camels.

I had told him well in advance of our kidnapping, that we would be attending the Children’s Program and that I would be helping with the cookies and punch afterward. So we headed to the church again that evening with a rather subdued, resigned Ethan.

He perked up considerably when we got to the kitchen in the basement of the church where Cheryl was busy setting cookies on glass platters, choosing from the great variety of both homemade and store-bought cookies provided by the parents and sometimes grandparents of the kids in the program. Ethan helped me stow the makings for the punch in the refrigerator, helped me search for the cups we would use and then helped Cheryl fill the last several platters. I allowed him to eat one broken cookie before the three of us headed upstairs just as the kids were lining up to march into the sanctuary and up to the platform.

Cheryl, Ethan and I set up folding chairs in the back. Ethan chose the one directly opposite the aisle to the front of the church where he would have the best view of the kids up front. Bill joined us after he finished greeting the 90 or so folks gathered on this cold night.

The program was interspersed with musical numbers that the kids sang and hymns where the audience was invited to join in. Ethan enjoys finding the hymn himself and singing along as he reads the lines. Cheryl was a little surprised when she went to help him and he wrested “his” hymn book away from her and sang out the correct lines of the carol. She glanced at me and I shrugged my shoulders.
The kids did an amazing job, as happens every year, in spite of the ragged dress rehearsal we had witnessed that morning. We slipped out just before their last number and Bill’s benediction, and dashed down the stairs.

Ethan staggered as he helped me carry gallons of punch and 2 litter bottles of 7-UP over to the cut glass punch bowl Cheryl had supplied. He dashed back and retrieved the orange sherbet to add to the top. I began ladling out the punch while Ethan helped Cheryl arrange the platters of cookies on the serving shelf.

I only had a dozen or so cups filled when the kids noisily made their way down the steps, the older boys pulling off their costumes and dumping them in a heap in the corner of the room.

The line surged toward the platters of cookies when a small voice sternly commanded, “Halt! We are not ready for you to begin.” The line of kids instantly stopped dead in their tracks. Cheryl and I struggled not to burst into laughter as this 6-year-old controlled the entire situation.

The kids waited, looking at Ethan, and then at Cheryl and me as we quickly finished enough of our tasks to be ready. Then Ethan again boomed out, “O.K. you kids can go through the line. Keep the line orderly. Only take two cookies.”

Cheryl stood there dumbfounded and I smiled with amusement as the line of 20 or so kids quietly filed past the cookies and politely accepted a cup of punch. Even the twelve-year-old boys only took two cookies.

Soon we were swamped as parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins surged into the room, taking cookies and waiting patiently while I dipped ladle after ladle of punch. I was beginning to get quite behind when a friend stepped next to me and handed me the cups to be filled.

Other women joined Cheryl in the kitchen to keep the platters of cookies filled and begin washing now empty cookie containers and eventually empty platters. I could catch a glimpse of Ethan from time to time racing from container to container to help Cheryl fill the platters as they emptied. Every so often he would dash over to my end of the counter, ask what I needed, then dash back to the refrig and stagger back with whatever I needed to refresh the punch.

I could only catch a glimpse of him, but I could hear his piping 6-year-old voice doing a running commentary which was smothered from time to time with bursts of laughter from the women who were bustling around the kitchen. I heard Ethan ask Jill where the garbage was and when she pointed to the large container at the edge of the room, he quickly gathered up empty store containers and no longer needed sheets of plastic wrap and stuffed them into the container.

He took time out to run to me and ask if we could take the punch containers home for recycling. I said yes and soon there was a growing collection at the end of one of the counters in the kitchen. I heard Ethan tell everyone NOT to throw those containers away because we were going to recycle them.

Almost as suddenly as it all began, the room was nearly empty again, the last platters were put away and the remaining cookies divided into zip bags for folks to take home.

We found an empty bag and stuffed the empty punch and soda bottles into it for recycling. Under the pile was a wrapped present. Ethan excitedly grabbed it and told me that a “nice lady” had given it to him because he was helping so much. I agreed that he could open it once we got home.

As usual, Bill was one of the very last to leave and we bundled a tired but excited Ethan into the back seat and then headed home.

“That was the best party I have ever been to.” Ethan exclaimed from the back seat. There was a pause. “And I thought the kids did a good job too.” He sighed contentedly and clutched his still wrapped book to his chest.

Ethan continued to talk about what a great party it was - because he had participated in both the preparation and the execution of the party. He had been allowed to exercise his gifts. AND those gifts had been valued.

We are fortunate to be a part of a church where kids are so valued. Bill and I have been a part of several other churches where kids are NEVER allowed in the kitchen. But Ethan was not only allowed to be in the kitchen, he was allowed to help. He was allowed to help put out the cookies, he was allowed to open the refrigerator and get me the additional supplies I needed. He was allowed to carry glass platters from the counter to the folks doing the dishes. He was even allowed to carry on a running commentary and conversation with the rest of the folks helping in the kitchen.

The ladies who were also helping, also exercising their gifts, were thoroughly enjoying this 6-year-old because he was only 6. Had he been the slightly challenged woman who often fills that same role, they would not have noticed. Nor did they comment on each other’s roles that evening. But there were many thank-yous at the end of the evening. Cheryl and I could not have managed nearly as smoothly without those extra willing hands.

As Ethan commented, it was a “great party” because we were having so much fun working together.

I think this is part of what Paul had in mind when he talks about our gifts. Whether we are six or sixty, whether it is “just” filling empty platters, or baking the cookies themselves, we serve together and it becomes a task of joy. We need to honor the “six-year-olds” right along with the others whose gifts appear more spectacular, but every gift is necessary to get the job of the Church done.

And when we get to the end of the day, the end of our lives, may we all be able to say, “that was the best party I have ever been to!”