a tale of two puppets
It starts with a phone call from Steve's puppet co-hort exactly ten minutes before Steve is to leave the house to become puppet man at church. 3 minutes later I learn his co-hort's family has the plague or something. "Will you help me with the puppets?" he says.
I knew it would come to this. It's your fault, all you who are trying to pray me out of my puppet fears. Stop it.
I say yes. I love the children of my church. The puppets will go on.
3 minutes later, God intervenes. Your prayers have been foiled. My friend Debbie texts and asks if I can be a prayer partner for their little girl's dedication in the service. It's decided Syd will be Steve's puppet partner, at least until the 5 o'clock service.
Jesus I know you love me. I won't take this for granted.
We are driving to the 5, several hours later. Minutes from arrival.
"You know, if you would look at my recent resume," I say to Steve, "you would know I'm a poor candidate for this job. I talk too quietly. I tend to have panic attacks. And puppets FREAK ME OUT!!!"
"I'll do the puppets," says a voice from the backseat. God bless Syd Smith.
We get inside. There stands Dakota Valdes, one of Syd's best friends. He's going to Kidstuff. Syd turns to me. "Sorry, mom, you have to do puppets." And they're off.
I knew it would come to this.
I am sitting on a stack of text books behind a black velvet curtain with my husband. I have a freaked out girl puppet we are calling "Sally". She only has eyelashes on one eye. Probably lost the other in some kind of puppet rumble after hours. Several kidstuff workers are hanging around as we practice.
"Does Sally have lockjaw?" they ask laughingly. I don't know to close the puppet's mouth when it's not speaking. "Shut up," I reply.
It's minutes to showtime and Steve turns to me. "Check it out," he says. "My puppet has chest hair." He pulls at a few black tufts of hair coming out of it's little plaid shirt, connected to his full black beard.
I muffle a scream so the children can't hear me. "That's so gross!" I whisper to him. "Your puppet looks like a terrorist!" It's true. "He's Hispanic," he whispers back. "That puppet is NOT Hispanic," I whisper back.
The children's voices are excited. "Puppets!" They react happily to the puppets and no child tries to punch me through the curtain as they did to Syd earlier in the day. All is well in puppetdom.
As soon as it's over, I fling Sally off my hand. "Can I go to church now?"
Freaked out puppets.
I knew it would come to this. It's your fault, all you who are trying to pray me out of my puppet fears. Stop it.
I say yes. I love the children of my church. The puppets will go on.
3 minutes later, God intervenes. Your prayers have been foiled. My friend Debbie texts and asks if I can be a prayer partner for their little girl's dedication in the service. It's decided Syd will be Steve's puppet partner, at least until the 5 o'clock service.
Jesus I know you love me. I won't take this for granted.
We are driving to the 5, several hours later. Minutes from arrival.
"You know, if you would look at my recent resume," I say to Steve, "you would know I'm a poor candidate for this job. I talk too quietly. I tend to have panic attacks. And puppets FREAK ME OUT!!!"
"I'll do the puppets," says a voice from the backseat. God bless Syd Smith.
We get inside. There stands Dakota Valdes, one of Syd's best friends. He's going to Kidstuff. Syd turns to me. "Sorry, mom, you have to do puppets." And they're off.
I knew it would come to this.
I am sitting on a stack of text books behind a black velvet curtain with my husband. I have a freaked out girl puppet we are calling "Sally". She only has eyelashes on one eye. Probably lost the other in some kind of puppet rumble after hours. Several kidstuff workers are hanging around as we practice.
"Does Sally have lockjaw?" they ask laughingly. I don't know to close the puppet's mouth when it's not speaking. "Shut up," I reply.
It's minutes to showtime and Steve turns to me. "Check it out," he says. "My puppet has chest hair." He pulls at a few black tufts of hair coming out of it's little plaid shirt, connected to his full black beard.
I muffle a scream so the children can't hear me. "That's so gross!" I whisper to him. "Your puppet looks like a terrorist!" It's true. "He's Hispanic," he whispers back. "That puppet is NOT Hispanic," I whisper back.
The children's voices are excited. "Puppets!" They react happily to the puppets and no child tries to punch me through the curtain as they did to Syd earlier in the day. All is well in puppetdom.
As soon as it's over, I fling Sally off my hand. "Can I go to church now?"
Freaked out puppets.