“They want you to do…what??”
So my husband preached yesterday.
As in, wore a suit and a tie and a Britney mic and stood behind the pulpit in the bright lights and preached.
The evidence that this event occurred can be found in the gigantic My-Husband-Is-Preaching Stress Pimple right between my eyes.
Because apparently, everyone that knew he was preaching was praying that he wouldn’t be anxious, and as all of Chris’ nervousness made it’s defeated retreat out of his body, it crawled into the nearest one that happened to be hanging around – and that would be mine.
The good news was that it was a very serious communion service, so I didn’t have to worry about him making any unscheduled, un-preapproved jokes.
(Chris teaches our Sunday School on occasion, and being that it is full of our closest friends, he tends to freewheel with a demographically casual irreverence that would stop my heart if it came from my husband in the pulpit in Big Church.)
But, the bad news was also that it was a very serious communion service, and he jolly well better not mess it up.
So, alas. The nervousness on his behalf manifested itself into Crisco and grew a new being between my eyes.
I had read and reread and edited and reedited his message, but the pit of my stomach didn’t get that Hopping Bunny Feeling until 10 PM Saturday night, at which time he began his first pajama rehearsal from the kitchen counter.
After some high-quality, well-received constructive criticism from his life partner, it wasn’t bad at all.
And then there was an interlude of a couple of old episodes of Downton Abbey, at which time I tried to distract my Crisco Bunnies by wondering what it would be like to have a Lady-In-Waiting and listening to fabulous British accents.
And then the second pajama rehearsal at midnight. My anxiety increased and I wondered if perhaps it was too late for him to back out.
You know – for my sake.
It wasn’t him – the message was beautiful, and he was doing it fine, but I just couldn’t help but get that piano-recital, Olympic final, ice-the-kicker nervousness on his behalf.
On Sunday morning, I felt a bit of Wife Guilt over not ironing his pants, chose my most proper front-row-sitting outfit, and began praying that Noah would take the day as an opportunity to begin to at least marginally enjoy his stay in the nursery.
We finished getting ready in silence. Except for…
“I sure hope that you give me something to blog about.”
“I sure hope I don’t!!”
And thankfully, Chris got his wish. He didn’t trip on the stairs, I didn’t get an inescapable coughing fit, Noah didn’t crawl out of the nursery and into the balcony and wail about the injustice of his life, and no unvetted jokes slipped out. The entire service was very meaningful, and I was (after my heart resumed it’s thumping) quite proud of him.
Now if I could just get rid of this zit.
Although the first few minutes of his message mysteriously disappeared, if you have any desire to hear an excerpt, it can be found here.
But if you hear a tapping noise, that was most likely my nervous foot reverberating from the front row.