Tender Mercies: Unspoiled Edition

In our church lady meeting the other day, we were discussing which kids needed to be separated from former-best-friends-turned-punching-bags as we organize Sunday school classes for the new year. In other words, our problem children.

I’ll be the first to admit that all children can be quite problematic under the right circumstances (three hours of church being a prime example), but I took exception to three of the kids thusly labeled. All boys, they were also all willing and enthusiastic participants in the roadshow that Chrysanthemum directed and I scripted.

Have you ever been in charge of a church theatrical production? Turns out most people would rather postpone a desperately needed root canal (it’s the pain beforehand that slaughters sanity, not the root canal itself = never fear appropriate dental work) than sing and dance in a silly fifteen-minute patriotic skit that entails simples costumes, props, and the occasional rehearsal.

And while we’re on the subject of the roadshow as Mormon phenomenon, I’d like to point out that you can have either a family-friendly, low-key production that encourages comraderie and embodies the “wholesome recreational activities” thing, OR you can have a Broadway-ready American Idol-themed showpiece with imported dancers, expensive wardrobes and elaborate sets, and high-strung directors that inspire parents to withdraw their children, but not both. — And that if you as a stake activities committee ask for the former and then privately and posthumously wish that every ward had followed the latter’s example, you’re not going to make many friends. (But I’m not bitter.) (And American Idol is a great idea for a roadshow skit.)

Anyway, I stood up to my fellow church ladies of the primary with a “Don’t you bad talk my roadshow boys. Nobody puts baby in a corner.”

Then yesterday afternoon, a little boy from two houses down knocked on my door. We’ll call him Tommy, and note that he is apparently a bit of a challenge sometimes and that he also has gorgeous shocking blue eyes and those long eyelashes that always seem to go to the boys in the family. He’s seven. And he sang his heart out in our roadshow, bless his heart.

He knocked, holding a serious-looking shovel and an open bag of rock salt. He asked if he could shovel my driveway. I hesitated. He said he did a really good job on his own driveway, I could take a look at it, and he would like to shovel mine too. I asked him how much he charged and he looked surprised, confused.

Sally and Susan and Spot were huddled around me at the door. “What do you want to get paid for the job?” Blank stare. “How much do you want us to pay you for doing it?” “Oh,” he said, finally. Thought about it, considered. “Twenty cents?”

Sally said should give him more than that — like fifty cents at least. I was feeling generous, so after half an hour of hard work we slipped him a big one.