At the end of Catechism class last night, the director called all the kids to gather around her and pray the Our Father.
Henry, the third-grade boy-historian wonder who has his front teeth back and knows EVERY SINGLE PRESIDENT of the United States IN ORDER and WHICH STATES THEY’RE FROM, was standing toward the front, arms full with his winter coat, book, folder, papers and the cardboard rice bowl I gave the kids to fill with change for Lent.
“Hold your hands nice and prayerfully like this,” the director said, demonstrating, “so that your prayers go straight up to heaven.”
He tried. He really did. I specifically watched him to see how he managed.
But his pile came crashing out of his arms and unto the floor, and he was left with just his coat around his arm, hands in prayer position, though, as he recited the prayer unfazed.
It cracked me up and melted my heart at the same time.
Later, I told my fellow teacher/co-conspirator in all things that drive us crazy about these kids.
“They’re so literal,” she laughed.