There you are, minding your own business at church, when Deacon Wilbur approaches with that tight-lipped smile that means he’s about to ask you to do the children’s story. “Happy Sabbath, Sister,” he says warmly, putting an uncomfortable emphasis on the “Sister” part.
You grab the bulletin and quickly scan it, hoping to jog his memory with your name printed under the “Hospitality Team” section. But it’s no use – the old codger has already forgotten who you are again.
This isn’t the first time Deacon Wilbur has blanked on your name, reverting to the generic “Sister” like you’re part of some nunnery. You could be Sister Bertrille or Sister Licia for all he knows or cares.
As the deacon launches into his weekly spiel about how it’s so hard to find people to do things up front (you know he’s simply forgotten to ask anyone) you tune him out, mentally running through any kid-appropriate stories you haven’t yet told in church. Meanwhile Deacon Wilbur persists in addressing you as sister as he begs you to “tell a story, honestly any story that comes to mind.”
Finally, you cut him off mid-solicitation. “It’s Karen, Deacon Wilbur. Karen Humphries? You ask me to do children’s story all the time.” You hit him with a sincere but increasingly strained smile.
“Oh yes, of course! Sister Karina!” he replies, undeterred. “We’re so blessed to have dedicated sisters like yourself helping with the Lord’s work.”
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