Out of a deep sense of duty, Dan and I volunteered to teach Shef's Sunday School class on the second and fourth Sundays of the month until the end of the year. Today was our first day, and upon perusing the lesson plan, it was apparent that my teaching license and eight years of experience working with kids ages twelve to eighteen was going to be absolutely no help.

When the first kid, Landon, arrived, I cheerfully introduced myself to his mother as a new teacher.

“My kids thrive on routine,” she said.

I smiled sympathetically. “Hey, Landon, do you want to play with your tray?” I asked, steering him toward some paper and markers.

After kissing his mother’s thigh maybe seven or eight times and crying sharply for a minute or two when she left, Landon was busy drawing something with yellow crayon with his security blanket at his side.

“That looks great,” I said. “What are you drawing?”

Landon scrunched up his eyes and nose and glowered at me. “It’s a GUN,” he snarled.

I burst out laughing, of course. What else could I do? This was my first interaction as a Sunday School teacher.

“DON’T LAUGH AT ME,” Landon scowled.

“Oh, I’m not laughing at you,” I said hastily. “I’m so sorry.” Dan raised his eyebrows in reproach, and I tried to recover. “So! Landon, what’s your favorite part of Sunday School?”

He squished his face up again. “Going home,” he hissed.

“Um hmm,” I said, standing up from the table to hide my guffaws.

“Pull yourself together,” Dan whispered, frowning at me as he wrote the agenda on the board.

A few minutes later, I got busy welcoming our other two students (low turnout today, thank the Lord), and Dan tried bonding with Landon.

“These are all the pieces of the machine gun,” Landon explained to him. “And this is a hundred bazookas. A THOUSAND bazookas.”