Monkey business

Bang in the middle of it all. That’s where the hospital chapel is. With doors wide open for the tears, the sighs of exhaustion, the hearts filled with gratitude, the searching souls.

When I walk past the beautiful chapel, I am filled with respect for this hospital. Respect for those who positioned the chapel in the centre. For those who know that the ministry must extend to the soul. That help is limited and hope eternal.

The last time I went though, I had little time for uplifting thought or soul-searching. I was too busy shushing, scolding and watching over my two-year-old.

“Suffer the little children to come unto me.” - and we faithfully obey. But what after?

Last Sunday, my child stepped (more than once) on the foot of a young lady who was standing next to me in the aisle as the chapel was already full by the time she arrived. That may not have been pleasant, no doubt, but it was only a two-year-old foot that did the stepping and concessions should have been granted. Besides, the lady who surely would have moved for any adult who was trying to get into the pew, just stood in the child’s way without even deigning to look down at her. And after that, for every question or comment made by the tot - the decibel levels of which were above the acceptable despite my vigilant efforts - she would give her dagger looks, or snort in self-righteous indignation or both.

Was I ready for a show-down! I calmed myself down with the thought that the chances were very high that the young woman would be going to church with toddlers sooner or later. (Similar thoughts come to mind when any PYT looks at me accusingly if I do not instantly stoop to pick up my child, who has fallen for the zillionth time in a day).

Every Sunday, I try something new – a new book, a new toy. However, for a two-hour service at the church, the novelty wears off fast. Two-year-olds can’t really handle lollipops (too messy) or balloons (they might swallow them) and they can go through a box of gems really fast. And a book or toy in one hand is not going to stop a child determined to have some fun. In effect, what that means is that after the first fifteen minutes or half an hour on a really good day, you are back to square one - restless child, seemingly endless service. 

Despite that, I still go almost every Sunday because the child-friendly far outnumber the others. The coochie-cooing, chocolate giving ones who watch the little monkey’s antics with tender smiles are for me, family; the harassed mothers, comrades in battle. As for the ones who won’t bat an eye-lid if some milk spills on their lovely sarees or neatly pressed trousers, they seem to me smart, intelligent, good-looking, humorous, self-confident, hard-working, charitable and what-not.

I just love ’em.