You know the drill. Palm Sunday. Every four-and-five year-old kid in church is decked out in tiny, white and green choir robes. They are hoisting palm fronds, and waving them in every direction a kid can think of.
So the last kid to make it to the risers. He is corralled right away by the choir director, because he was on his hands and knees peering into the dark recesses underneath. He is four, massively cute, longish hair, endlessly curious.
So, he winds up standing next to his teacher. Good thing, because he acting like he's never seen this scenario before. And they practiced not ten minutes ago. He's looking at the ceiling, the stained glass window, the cross on the back wall, wondering what in the heck that's there for. . .
He realizes that all the four and five year olds are doing hand-motions and he oughta do a few as well.
He raises his hands — the other kids are doing waves. He does the waves — the other kids are pretending to be grasses in the winds. He points north —the other kids bow toward the south.
He's squats, trying to figure out why he has five fingers instead of six or eight, and then assures himself that he has five more on the other hand. Now why would that be?
He hops up and down, three times, just excited to be there. Then turns around and faces the back wall. Ten minutes before it occurs to anybody else. Then everybody turns around too and follows him off the stage. He has no idea how he wound up in the leadership position.
Big, cheesy grin. Big smacky kiss. His mom is relieved it wasn't worse.
You can spot 'em at 60 paces—if you know what to look for.
An itty, bitty writer -- in the making.