Why My Parents Didn’t Name Me Grace

I teach a primary class at church – a large group of girls from the ages of 9 turning 10 this year up to just barely turned 12 this year.  I’ll have anywhere from 12-15 girls a week.  We have a lot of fun, they are a hoot to teach.

Sunday I was walking into our classroom while chatting with a friend when suddenly my right ankle turned (blasted high heels, though they are wider heels and pretty sturdy) and I went flying backward. I fell backwards across the hall, my legs shot out in front of me (at least I didn’t flash anyone in my sunday skirt) and I landed on my bum – HARD. The momentum of my fall caused my elbow to smash into the door (where a Sunday school class of teenagers was) behind me, followed my my entire back.  It was humiliatingly loud. My friend was caught between astonished, laughing, and concerned about my *condition*. And pronounced, “That was the strangest fall I have ever seen.” 

All of my girls heard my resonating crash and one of them popped out, “That was you???” In utter amazement and I was greeted by many giggles once I limped into the room – after they made sure I was all right, of course. Only one of the teenagers witnessed by glorious grace, thankgoodness, though he was kind enough to tease me about it heavily later on in the day.  My friend of course was kind enough to let my husband know, so he hunted me down later and renewed many giggles.  I don’t know that my lesson was terribly effective that day – the goofiness of their teacher seemed to occupy them for quite some time.

And, aside from being very, very sore, I – and baby- are just fine.  Feeling a bit wounded in the pride department, but fine just the same. 🙂