If You Give a Moose a Jar of Turquoise Blue Paint...

WARNING:  THE EVENTS DEPICTED IN THIS BLOG MAY BE DISTURBING.  HOWEVER, NO ACTUAL SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST.

In the book "If You Give a Moose a Muffin" by Laura Neumeroff, one catastrophe leads to another.  Read on...

You may not be aware that I am also a Sunday School teacher.  I teach children,  (of course, what else?), ages 5 – 12.  A very large age gap, yes, but we have a very small demographic of children in our church.  Consolidation is a necessity.  I know my posts usually involve my experiences in the public school classroom, but last Sunday proffered a story I just have to share.  I HAVE TO.  You’ll know why in a moment.

Even in such a wide range of ages, my class usually only consists of one or two boys.  Nice, well-behaved boys.  I enjoy them and their honest questions very much.  On this day, however, as I entered the church foyer, I was greeted by the grandchildren of a church member.  A lovely lady with equally lovely grandchildren.  “Good morning, Mrs. Dahl.” was her sunny greeting.  She introduced me to her smiling, beautiful, charming grandchildren.  “They will be in your class today, I believe.”  Good thing I had brought more materials than I thought I would need.  This teaching gig as a career was really paying off.

The two girls and a boy headed down to the church basement with me, completely at ease and chattering away like they had known me their entire short lives.  My faithful attendee soon showed up and now we were a party of five.

We went through the lesson on John, the Apostle of Love, and talked about what it means to show love to others.  They asked great questions, seemed engaged in the discussion, and I felt really good about the spiritual manna that had been imparted that day.  Then my student who is there every week asked THE question (cue to start humming the theme song to Jaws).  “Mrs. Dahl, can we start on the mural like we talked about last week?’  I looked in his expectant face and couldn’t say no.  I SHOULD have said no, but I didn’t.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Before I could say, “Jesus wept’” (as I would soon be doing myself), four children were pulling supplies from shelves and closets in anticipation of creating a mural akin to something Michelangelo would have attempted.  I hardly knew what was happening.  I suddenly had lost all control of my students.  There were only four of them, for crying out loud!  I’m a licensed teacher with the state of North Dakota.  How could I be so inept at this moment??  A roll of butcher paper had been found and a long sheet now stretched the length of our table.  Brushes were dipping into bright paint colors like mad, colored sand left over from VBS was being poured onto glue dribbles, and four beaming faces were having the time of their lives.  I was still trying to fake it in the role of competent teacher when Little Suzanna Marie suddenly let out a tiny “eeek!”  I looked up just in time to see her topple off of her beige-colored church basement folding chair, do a backwards flip and land under the church basement folding potluck table.  Brushes froze mid-air and chatter ceased as we waited for word on the status of Little Suzanna Marie’s health and well being.  Right on cue a small voice under the church basement folding potluck table announced, “I’m OK.”  I realized I had literally been holding my breath and now exhaled with relief.

As I headed towards her to help her get up from the church basement beige carpet, my line of vision was drawn to a splotch of turquoise blue paint on that beige carpet.  Oh no.  That’s not gonna’ want to come out, I knew.  As I took in that blue splotch, my eyes caught another blue splotch a few inches away.  Little Suzanna Marie was now completely forgotten.  I followed the splotches like a 747 following the runway lights on a foggy night.  Every time I found a new puddle or splat of paint it only led to another and then another.  Turns out, Little Suzanna Marie had done her Olympics quality backwards flip with an open jar of blue paint in her sweet little hand.  Turquoise blue to be precise.  I grabbed the near empty jar and frantically read the label.  “Washable” it proudly proclaimed in big, block letters.  Well, that was a good omen anyway. 

I continued my crime scene investigation so I would have an idea where to start cleaning and realized with horror that our mess had gone beyond the safe confines of our classroom.  We had left the door to the hallway open (go figure), and the Trail of Tears extended clear across the hallway, where the nursery wall had kindly stopped the assault.  There were globs of paint on the floor, the partition, on the nursery outer door, on the wall, and even a brave drip on the ceiling and its twin on the light fixture.  People, believe me when I say, it nearly broke the laws of physics with how wide spread that paint had gone. 

I was in shock.

The children were silently waiting to see how I would respond.  We became a black hole of sound.  Teacher trying to mentally process the enormity of our mess and children waiting for Hurricane Vonda to strike with fury. 

It suddenly struck me how utterly, impossibly funny this was and I began to laugh.  I heard a giggle behind me and then four Sunday School angels and their teacher stared at turquoise blue paint drips and laughed their heads off.  I got the giggles so bad I leaned my head against the offending nursery door with the new blue polka dots and laughed till I was near tears.  When I looked up, one of the boys had his new ipod out and was taking a video of his Sunday School teacher having a nervous breakdown in the beige hall of the church basement.  I’m sure it has been posted on Youtube by now.

Still laughing, I announced that we better think about cleaning our mess up before we got into trouble.  My little Oompa Loompa’s went into action again, and before I could sing “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” wet rags were being swished around and paint-covered brushes tossed into sinks.  I announced that I would take charge of the carpets and went hunting for anything that might attack turquoise blue paint with a vengeance.  Armed with what I could find, I began my Get Blue Paint Out of Beige Carpet campaign and soon realized this was going to harder than anticipated.  The more I scrubbed, the more it seemed to spread.  Washable, my eye!  This stuff had hardcore staining power.

I was vaguely aware that my charges were going after whatever glowed blue with wet, drippy rags.  At least they were occupied.  I scrubbed, they sloshed, we all giggled.

The Hour of Power was soon over and I told my students that they were free to go.  I would continue scrubbing until all was well.  They offered to stay.  I declined.  That was sweet of them, yes?

With foot traffic safely ensconced upstairs in the sanctuary for the Sunday morning service, I was free to get Down and Dirty.  I headed back to the church kitchen for more rags and soapy water.  Carbs.  I needed carbs for energy.  Spotting a container of mini muffins, I devoured one in two bites.  I could feel strength coursing through my rattled nerves.  OK, Dahl.  You can do this.  Now get out there and show that non-washable turquoise blue paint who’s boss!!  I searched my purse for a hair band, threw my long hair into a sloppy ponytail, took off my sandals and my big bracelets. I was ready.  On my hands and knees I scrubbed and I prayed.  I prayed for four sweet children who had had a Sunday School experience probably like non other.  And I prayed that in a weird way, maybe they had seen Jesus in me.  “Got anything you want me to pray for while I’m down here?” I shouted to the nursery volunteers.  No?  I guess they’re having a better day than I am.

How long do you think it took me to finish my task?  Anyone?  You in the back, yeah you.  You nailed it.  It took me one hour and forty-five minutes to remove WASHABLE turquoise blue paint from my beigey church basement.  I dumped out my very blue soapy water, stowed the cleaning voodoo potions back under the kitchen sink and threw all the rags into a sink of water to soak.  As I stood there watching those rags turn their watery bath a vivid blue, my eyes were drawn to a sign posted on the cupboard door just above the dishrag drawer. It stated in bold letters, “Please do NOT use the dishrags for messes.  Cleaning rags can be found under the sink. “  The word NOT was bolded AND underlined.  It was very effective.  I was instantly afraid, as the bolded, underlined word intended.  I could feel a Shunning of Amish proportions headed my way.

I made it in time for the last fifteen minutes of the service and collapsed into a chair in the back of the sanctuary.  I looked like I had just gotten out of the gym after a hard workout.   I was disheveled, sweaty, and still seeing blue dots.  As the service came to a conclusion and the last prayer was prayed, I made my way over to the beaming children around which this tale centers.  One of girls looked me in the face and proclaimed, “I’ll never forget you!”  I laughed.  “I’m pretty sure I’ll never forget you either.”  She smiled broader still and accepted my hug as did all the beaming cherubs around her.

I had verbally taught them what love looks like.  But theory doesn’t really go very far, does it?  Maybe God knew they needed a visual aid.  Feet put to faith, if you will.  I only know that our catastrophe taught me as much as it taught them.

And today I am hiding the turquoise blue paint.