Sandwiches

For the most part, we have had our kids in church with us since they were born. On many Sundays I wonder if the effort is worth it. While I haven’t had too many out-and-out battles, a pew strewn with markers, crayons, stickers, and what-have-you certainly looks like a battleground. And I’m still trying to figure out if others around us who remark how quiet they kids are are either being polite, are deaf, or are really caught up in worship. 

 

However, there are moments when I am glad we keep them in church. Moments when I realize that despite their whispers, they’re fiendish coloring, or the endless searching under pews for loss crayons; they are actually listening. For instance this past Sunday when Emry turned to me about three minutes into the sermon and whispered, “Mama, why is he talking about sandwiches?”

 

One of our pastors is a native or Puerto Rico, so English is not his first language even though he speaks it fluently with hardly an accent. But because English is not his first language, he finds some of our colloquialisms interesting and tends to use them often. In this case, he was using the term “sandwich” to refer to Mark 14:1-11 where verses 1-2 and then 10-11 seems to “sandwich” the scene of Mary anointing Jesus. To be honest, I had trouble explaining that in whispers, and I’m pretty sure Emry just decided to shrug it off as some adult thing.

 

But, oddly, I had been thinking of sandwiches this past week. Metaphorically speaking. Because I was thinking of Ethan, sandwiched between two girls as he is. And feeling sorry for him. For he’s only started seeing the tip of the iceberg. 

 

Since having two kids, I have become much more sympathetic towards my younger siblings who I always felt had no reason to whine about anything for they weren’t the firstborn. But now that I’m on the outside of the sibling relationship is respect to my children, I can see that being the younger sibling isn’t easy. And now that I have three kids…well, I am much more sympathetic to my middle siblings. No wonder they complained of being overlooked. If Ethan wasn’t the only boy, I think I would unwittingly overlook him more than I already do!

 

I certainly don’t mean to overlook him. But Elly is a baby and so requires a lot of attention at times. And Emry has more responsibilities I’m forever trying to remind her of. So, Ethan is often just there. Not that he isn’t quite noticeable – his endless chatter, his constant disasters, his boyish ways in the midst of two girls. But, poor thing, he’s also at what will seem like the endless age of never getting to do anything. Last week Emry was big enough to go on one of the waterslides at the waterpark, having finally hit 42 inches. Ethan, all of 37 inches, had to stand on the sidelines and cry his little heart out because he couldn’t go too. (And, sadly, I doubt he’ll have such a growth spurt he’ll be able to go next year either!) Then there was soccer. Emry is old enough to play, Ethan is not. Emry has dance lessons. The age of 3 isn’t old enough to do anything he’d be interested in. So, yes, now I know. It really is hard to be the younger sibling. And even harder, I’m sure, to be the middle one.

At camp in Minnesota, the women’s director had three kids: boy, girl, boy. She told me often that she was happy to have the boys (having had brothers), but at a loss when God gave her a girl. She soon realized, though, that her daughter was the cream in her Oreo sandwich. Perhaps comparing Ethan to the sweet cream of an Oreo is a bit of a stretch, but he can be the cheese in my grilled cheese, or the salami on my Italian sub. Special. Just as special as my girls.