The adventures (and non-adventures) of a marginally seasoned attorney.


Friday, September 16, 2011


One weekend when I was in first grade or so, I had a big girl weekend away from home. Mom helped me pack my little pink suitcase - okay, she packed the entire suitcase - and I was on my way to visit my childhood babysitter and her family in an itty bitty town a few hours east of where I lived. I stayed with them several times throughout my childhood, but the thing that made this particular trip memorable was my visit to church Sunday morning.

Church started with Sunday School, and because I was younger than everyone else I was staying with, I was in a different class than them. Fine by me. I wasn't a shy child. I may have been the "visitor," but I engaged in the conversation and had very important things to say. Like when the teachers asked us what we would do if we were at school and our parents forgot to pick us up? I boldly told them that this would not happen to me because my parents worked at school. And when they pressed me to answer the question anyway, I again boldly told them that this would never happen. I don't think they were happy about this, but I was an honest child, and that was the most honest answer I could think of.

Anyway, after that heated discussion, we did a craft. I'm not exactly sure why we were doing a craft. I have no other memory of ever doing a craft in every other Sunday School class I ever went to in my life. And I don't remember what this had to do with Jesus. But crafting it was, and I was enthusiastic about it.

It was a simple craft. We had to paste something red - maybe a construction paper apple? - on a sheet of black construction paper. I'm not exactly sure what it was supposed to be. But this was the super cool part - each person got to write her own name on the black piece of paper *in white crayon*.

...Except for me.

The Sunday School teachers, instead of letting me write my own name on the construction paper, wrote it down for me. I'm not sure why this was. I was *awesome* at writing. No backwards letters or anything. But the teachers handed me a sheet of black construction paper with a name already written on it, and they didn't hand me a white crayon. I was confused.

That wasn't the bad part, though; turns out the teachers didn't even write my name correctly. I don't have a difficult name, but they got it wrong. I was confused. And the name they wrote?


Yep, I was "Visitor." I was very frustrated by this. I was a special, unique girl, and I don't know why I wouldn't get to write my real name on my craft. What was even more frustrating is they put the craft on the wall next to everyone else's, which made it even more obvious that I was the only one who didn't get to write my name in white crayon. I was perplexed.

Twenty years have passed, and I am obviously still perplexed by this. But that's okay, there's a nifty thing on my wall now with my real name on it - my diploma. Granted, I didn't get to write my name on there myself. But I think the fact that they wrote "Juris Doctor" after my name makes up for it.