Judgement . . . Seat

Me and my Partner in Crime/ Future Best Friend

I was sitting in a Sunday School class yesterday.

The group was studying a particular scripture.

It concerned what happens when we all die.
The teacher explained that, when we die, all of us will be taken back to that God who made us.

I was with him that far.

Then he explained that everyone will wait there until the final judgement.

The righteous in a state of peace and calm.

The wicked in a state of anxiety knowing that the final judgement won't be pretty.

It was an interesting class.

It reminded me of something.

Because I have an active imagination.

And because I can't pay attention to anything for more than two minutes.

Unless there are moving pictures and/or shiny things . . .

My next older brother, George, and I used to squabble.

A lot.

It was his fault.

I can say that because this is my blog.

Okay, yes, it's connected to his blog, but I'm going to worry about that later.

Moving on . . .

I don't think we could exist in the same room for more than a few seconds before a fight would break out.

She's touching me!

He's taking my toys!

She's playing stupid games!

He says I'm playing stupid games!

HE/SHE'S BREATHING MY AIR!!!

You know the drill.

My mother tried all sorts of remedies.

Chores.

Confiscation of treats.

Loss of privileges.

The only thing that worked was 'time out'.

George and I spent many, many minutes thus engaged.

Or rather dis-engaged.

For first offences, such as minor disagreements over toys, she started out small.

“You two go and sit on a chair!”

This punishment was usually informal.

Consisting of a few moments spent sitting at opposite ends of the table.

If the crime was a bit more serious, ie. name-calling, time was added.

“You two sit there until the timer on the stove goes off!”

Rats.

Then there were the major offences.

Where things had gotten a little . . . physical.

Hair pulling and/or pinching and/or scratching.

“Both of you sit there on that piano bench until your father gets home!”

Oh, man.

Not only did we lose playing privileges.

But we had to sit in very close proximity to the person who had landed us in this predicament.

Sigh.

Did you know that, sometimes, older brother have cooties?

Well, they do.

Just FYI.

So there we sat.

Back to the discussion in Sunday School.

And I don't mean to be disrespectful.

But I think I know precisely what the teacher was trying to tell us.

My brother and I sat on that piano bench for what was probably only a matter of minutes.

But which seemed like hours to a four-year-old.

In a confined space.

Unable to leave.

Waiting for the punishment of a just father.

Yep. I know.