"My speaking assignment this month from the Stake Presidency is on...."

I shifted and uncrossed my legs, stretching my tired muscles. It was an uncomfortably hot and stifling summer sacrament meeting, and as the high council representative waded into his talk, I quickly perceived that his comments nicely accented the weather. Fatigued from a hard schedule the day before and a poor night's sleep, I sensed I could be in for trouble.

Only half-feigning a yawn, I raised my hand to politely cover my mouth, and, while turning my head to the side, covertly glanced at the clock on the chapel wall. Thirty-three minutes left. Or twenty-eight minutes if I factored out the five minutes the closing hymn and benediction would require. I was definitely in trouble.

I, who had never fallen asleep in a meeting since age ten--thirteen long years--was getting very, very sleepy.

Determined to stay awake, if only for appearance's sake, my eyes began roving the congregation for a pick-me-up. It didn't help. A high priest was nodding off to the far left, and two pews up and to the right, a father smilingly took out his suddenly unhappy infant son, while the older two played quietly. It made me wish I had a kid to pinch too. Then I could also join the foyer crowd.

I was either too young, or too old, or too unmarried. Great.

So, I resorted to the old standby--it had never let me down. I directed my eyes towards the speaker, leaned forward to the attain the desired "attentive listening" angle, and began to daydream. To salve any twinge of guilt I might conceivably feel at the end of the meeting, I prudently decided to daydream about my childhood, since personal history is an accepted Sabbath Day activity.

And behind my fast-glazing eyes, my brain began to turn, turning back the years to the sacrament meetings in my childhood. Back to when all the speakers seemed dry. Back to when it only took ninety minutes on a late Sunday afternoon for a child to grasp the concept of eternity. Back to when the options for passing the interminable time were only limited to a child's fertile imagination. Back to when desperation truly was the mother of invention....

* * * *

....I could tell I had slid my seven-year-old body into a good spot. There were two brothers and a sister between me and Mom. I congratulated myself. Being next to authority was only good when one wanted a lap to sleep on, which I didn't. At least, not yet. Squirming, I got a bit of working room on each side. I didn't need much, which was lucky, since with six other kids in the family--five of them older--I wasn't given much.

Now, what to do first. I had shaken hands with the usher on the way in to make sure I got a program, so all I needed now was a pencil. I caught Mom's eye and hand-signaled for one. She shook her head and signaled, "Not until after the sacrament is passed."

I'll show her! Glaring back to show my unhappiness, I gave the back of the bench in front of me a swift kick. Looking back at Mom to see if she had given in, she shot me a glance that broke my second kick in mid-stride. Dad wasn't the only sharpshooter in our family!

Hmm....

I pulled a blue hymnbook out of the rack, and looked at the printing date. 1946! An old one, which made it a lucky find! Any interesting writing in it? Nope, just worn. Having already found out in the weeks before that Evan Stephens was the most-often listed name in the index, I disappointedly put it back.

Well, there was always the clock. I started swinging my legs in rhythm with the second hand. When I was sure I was keeping in time, I closed my eyes and counted to thirty. Opening my eyes, I saw I was only two seconds off. Not bad...have to try that again!

What? My head shot up. Did I hear the magical word "potluck" in the string of announcements? Great! Maybe I'll get to have tater-tot casserole and the real macaroni-and-cheese from a box!

Smiling happily, I started running my fingernail up and down the rough red seat fabric, counting the rows of boxes in the design.

Time for the sacrament hymn already? As it ends, I watch with envy as the big deacons stand up and get the trays. Some day.... As two of them closed in on our row, I knew without even looking that Mom had the safety off and was putting pressure on the trigger. We knew there was no fooling around during the passing of the sacrament--our Wonderful World of Disney viewing privileges were on the line!

The deacons were dismissed, and the Bishop stood up to introduce the speakers. I looked at the clock. Oh no! Opening exercises were too quick today--there are over sixty-five minutes left for speakers! Why me!?

I look towards Mom, catch her eye and piteously sign-beg for a pencil. This time one is passed down the row, with Mom watching to make sure it actually reaches me. Wes happily joins me in games of connect-the-dots, and then hangman, where, after mutually agreeing that even hands and feet are okay, I again triumph by using a word he doesn't know.

The first talk is over. Chalk one up! Mom's watchful eye latches on to my finger making the mark in the air. Uh oh.

Oh good! The elderly clerk is putting this afternoon's attendance numbers up on the board above the sacrament table for all to see. He does it slowly to build up the suspense. A five! C'mon! C'mon! Faster! A four! Fifty-four percent! A bit above average!

Now I can ignore the rest of the action at the front of the chapel and concentrate on getting through the meeting....

I took the hymnbook again and, using the edge of my pencil, did a rubbing of the tabernacle organ--imprinted in relief on the cover--onto my program. The paper moved, so I had to do it again and again, finally getting a near-perfect imprint.

It was getting hot. I gave away the pencil and battered program to Randall, and slid down onto the cool tile floor. Mmm, much better. Boy was I sleepy....

Hey, who kicked me? Wes must still be mad at losing!

Getting back up to where I could defend myself, I spotted a small opening next to Mom. I headed that way and managed to squeeze in. Mom smiles down at me. Taking this as a go-ahead--she's still in a good mood--I put my head on her lap and she begins to lightly tickle my back and sides. There's no better feeling in the world!

Hey, hasn't the speaker's voice changed? I hope so.

Wouldn't a face massage be nice! I turn my head upwards and catch Mom's eye. She lightly brushes her fingers around my eyes, nose, mouth and ears. This is the way to spend eternity!

But my celestial happiness is interrupted by a slap to my head. Ben is trying to push my head off of Mom's lap from the other side. I resist, but he is the youngest and has to be kept happy, so Mom sits me up and Ben gets another turn. I glare down at him. He just smiles, sticks out his tongue, and closes his eyes.

Still twenty minutes left!

I desperately signaled down the row for my pencil, but they just ignored me. Adding some grunts and kicks, I get their momentary attention, but I also feel Mom's hand clamping down on the back of my neck, her fingernails applying a first warning.

"Mommmmm..." I begin to whine, but she just digs in deeper. The entire family is snickering at me now, and Mom ricochets a quick shot down the row, holding up one finger. Then two. We all quieted down. Three fingers meant either all of us marching up to the cry room, or no TV--or both--and either option filled our little hearts with dread.

Mom then pulled a pen out of her purse, smoothed out a wrinkled program, and handed both to me. I began copying the large picture of Christ on the wall onto the program. And I almost didn't notice the organ start up. Almost.

My pen frozen in my hand, I look up at Mom with a hopeful gaze and ask, "Is this the closing song?" A look of tired relief on her face, she nods yes.

"GOODY GOODY!"

Tired relief changed to embarrassed discomfort as the members in the surrounding rows began smiling and chuckling at my obvious delight. Mom placed her curled hand around my leg and took up the slack, her fingernails getting a firm bite.

As Mom released her grip to hold the hymnbook and sing, I pressed my ear against her, once again enjoying the uniquely comforting sound and feel of her echoing voice. This was the best possible ending to sacrament meeting.

Next week I would have to make sure I was out of Mom's reach before I......

* * * *

"Amen."

I instinctively joined in with the rest of the congregation at the end of the high councilor's talk, and reached for a hymnbook.

It was a new green hymnbook, and as I ran my fingers over the familiar picture of the tabernacle organ on the cover, I noticed for the first time that the picture didn't stand out in relief. And as I thought of the new generations of children wrestling with their own seventy minutes of "eternity" every week, I sighed softly to myself. They would never know how many hours of distracting enjoyment could be spent trying to rub out a flawless copy onto their programs. But thinking further, I had the happy thought that their active imaginations had surely found some other diversions to take up the slack. Who knows, maybe they even did the unexpected and even listened to the speakers now and then.

After the closing hymn and prayer, I was for some reason feeling re-energized. I sprightly walked out of the chapel, drove home, and with my new-found energy, I wrote down a list of the many ways I had remembered amusing myself as a child during sacrament meetings.

Who knows. It might come in handy someday.

© 1988, Louis A. Floyd