I’ve seen kids squirming on the front rows at church for a long time now. 

The outfits have changed over time. When I was little, I remember wearing thick, red stockings one Sunday morning, and by the time the whole thing was done, I had wallered out a large hole on one of the knees. “Waller” is not the only word to describe what I had done, but it fits the situation well, for here in north Alabama, “wallow” just doesn’t have the same effect. We “wallow” in our sorrows, but we “waller” out a hole in the ground, or in my case, my stockings.

Waller can also be used to denote what a child does on the rough, brown-carpeted floor of the sanctuary, worm-working her way under the pews like G.I. Joe. 

They might have given me medicine today, for no doubt that I had some form of ADHD and still do. If things interest me, I can remain engaged for hours, mesmerized by the activity. If they do not, I’d just as soon eat dirt. 

Or waller a hole in my stockings. For whatever reason, I was not interested in the lesson that day. I was deeply invested in my own personal project after Mrs. Linda took us all to Wilson Fincher’s old Sunday school room. It was a rectangular space large enough for our activities, with thin, wooden paneling for walls that didn’t always keep the sounds of our noisy commotion from traveling up the stairs and reaching the ears of the assembled congregation in the sanctuary. The children sat in folding chairs in a semicircle. I wasn’t even old enough yet to be terribly concerned with keeping my dress pulled down. Instead, I sat with my knees hiked up in front of me, right where I could see a frayed spot.

I kept working at it. Mrs. Linda told me to stop, that I would ruin them, but it was too late for that. When I was finished, I was oddly both pleased and disgusted with myself. Finally, my kneecap shone through in all its glory, but my other side didn’t match, and then all I wanted to do was to chunk my stockings. I don’t remember my mother’s reaction to the entire saga, except I highly doubt that the stockings were thrown away. She would have saved them for layering under pants for playing outside in the cold and, when my sister and I had outgrown them or the elastic was shot, for tying up tomato vines during the summer’s heat, the same as she did with worn-out pantyhose.

Children’s church was not always a given growing up. Most of my memories of Sunday morning services involve sitting still in the church pews while my father entertained me by drawing Woody Woodpecker cartoons on the church bulletin. There were no fun-filled activity bags, complete with fidget spinners, stickers, or Needoh. We would have been happy with a four-pack of cheap Rose Art crayons and a purple-inked mimeographed picture of Noah’s Ark to color, but the best we had were those little golf pencils and offering envelopes stuck in the slots in the backs of the pews. We filled the envelopes to the edges with doodles and underlined every word in the bulletins before turning them into fans, folded accordion-style, just like what we thought the villagers in China were doing when Lottie Moon showed up.

So when someone had the bright idea to gather the children for their own special services, I was all in. Finally, a time and a place for we kids to be ourselves, instead of forcing us to look straight ahead and to behave. My idea of behaving was pressing my fingers into my closed eyelids during lengthy prayers to induce kaleidoscopic visions or trying to balance the hymn book on the pew in front of me during the song service while I mimicked the music director’s hand motions.

But just a few short years later, when I was a young adult, I began volunteering during children’s church, then teaching training union classes, and then leading the children’s choir. The group was comprised of members’ kids and the van kids; the church van made the rounds on Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesday nights, and those kids were the most faithful church attenders.

No matter how the kids got there, the church was a haven for the children—youngsters who, like me, often had ADHD issues. They, too, would pick holes in their clothing. They didn’t want to sit still. They poked and prodded each other. 

When prayer request time came, they blurted out their most important needs: for Meemaw and Pawpaw to get well, for their cat that just had kittens not to eat them (seriously), for Uncle So-and-So who had been in a motorcycle accident to get out of the hospital, for a kid at school who didn’t go to church.

Some were very hungry. Some didn’t want the food served to them. Some wanted to sit under the table. Some wanted to sit on my lap. Some wanted to slip out the door and run down the hallway. Some had to be reminded to wash their hands and to flush.

I was tested. Children don’t always behave, but they ask the best and the most honest questions. 

“Then people brought little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked them. Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’”

Matthew 19:13-14

I’d like to think that Jesus had the first children’s church ministry, gave the first object lesson down front at the altar, served the first cookies and Kool-Aid. 

But He gave better. He always gives better. He came not just to speak theological truths to the masses of adults who followed Him, but He also came for the little children who represented the very attitude that we must have to come to Christ—

Not always behaving per societal expectations. Asking the best and the most honest questions. Getting close to the one who, in His own good time, has all the answers and who is the Answer.

I imagine they squirmed then much the same that they do now.

As I left the choir loft at church one morning, not long ago, I ended up as the caboose of the line of little ones who were now headed for children’s church. I said, to the adult rounding up those wriggling youngsters, “My, looks like a good group today.”

She turned toward me, saying, “Pray for us,” and with a sigh, “we’ve got some busy ones already.”

I didn’t see any wearing stockings, so at least there will be no holes wallered out. But I figured there were questions asked and answered, little ones held close on laps, snacks on the table and crumbs on the floor.

There would also be stories of Jesus, of the One who blessed the children and who expects us to do the same—to welcome them into our arms without prejudice, shame, or judgment—with all their honest questions, stinky smells, holey clothes, scary fears, and open hearts.

Do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

Amen, Lord, yes, and maybe even to me.