My third child has told me from the time that she could speak that she wanted to build houses and buildings. When she was two to three years old she would scream, “Stop the car,” whenever we passed new builds. She wanted to get out and look at what they were doing, before the walls went up. Both her granddads were engineers and builders, her great-grandfather was a builder, too. I figured that she got it honest. Meghan is a careful student, to put in mildly. She is almost obsessive when it comes to details and exactness, a good trait for a builder – (see prior entry.) Last weekend she went with me to Fine Arts – to see the senior high kids compete in all manner of singing, dancing, speaking, drama, etc. We had kids in the sermon category, so we went to watch them. The next night, Meg brought me something. She had written a sermon in her journal, “I figured I could do what they did,” she smiled. I read it. “Mrs. Renee and Mrs. Angel read it this morning. They said I can preach it at Mission 5/6 and at Sunday school next week. Can I type it in your computer?”
I read it. It was good, solid, there were nice twists and turns. I expected that she would share a nice little lesson. I was not prepared for what she put together this morning. She had props and examples and an assistant in costume. And when she took the microphone, one would have thought that she taught a class everyday of her life. She was personable and poised and eloquent and funny, a delight to watch and listen to. I had seen her dance in front of others and even give a hilariously scripted presentation on cooking at 4H, but I did not know how very much a “natural” she was teaching/preaching. The joke at my house is that Meg is just like me, in every weakness. She and I are both time fanatics, early to a fault, worriers, checklist freaks, paranoid studiers: “quiz me again please,” kind of kids. She and I spent most of the weekend painting. The rest of the gang were off somewhere with someone. On a run back from Walmart today to get more supplies, she turned to me. “Mama, what if I decided not to be an architect or a builder?” “That would be fine.” “Well, I just don’t know if that is definitely it or not.” “Fair, enough. You are just twelve.” “Yeah.” I’ve seen lots of youth sermons, most were given by 16 year olds who had help and months to craft them. A few were memorable for their content, hardly any for their speaker’s ease and finesse. Until today.