Nothing can better describe my early association with the Mormon Church as the regular routine of going to Church each Sunday. There are three distinct services that take place each Sunday. The first part is the Sacrament Service, which takes place in the chapel, and in which everyone in the local congregation gathers to pray, sing hymns, listen to announcements, and listen to three 10 minute talks given by regular members. The next part is Sunday School: classes are divided by age and experience, and instruction is given by lay members called to teach the class. The third part is different depending on your age and sex: Priesthood for boys & men over 12 yrs, Primary for children, Young Womens for teenage girls, and Relief Society for grown women. This last service is basically a second session of Sunday School, with emphasis given to the specific responsibilities for Priesthood holders or the women of the Church.
It used to be that each of these services were done separately -- everyone would gather for Sacrament Service, and then go home, and then come back later in the day for Sunday School. I think -- but am not sure -- that Priesthood/Primary/YM/RS was given during the week sometime. But at some point before I became self aware, it was changed to a "block schedule", and all three hours were done after another.
Going to church for three hours each Sunday is basically torture for small children with lots of energy. I suppose that we got used to it, and by the time I was 8 or so, it didn't seem so bad. And in between each hour we got to get up and move to another room. But I remember as a small child hating being dressed up in Sunday clothes. And I remember sitting through Sacrament meeting -- where "reverence" was the most prized attribute one could have -- trying to think of anything that would pass the time. Drawing on paper, drawing on my brothers' backs, playing tic-tac-toe, playing footsies. Whatever. I suppose I never thought of acting out so that my parents would have to take me out of the room of reverence. Other kids certainly pulled that one off.
So when something happened that was unexpected -- even just something small -- it was enough to rouse excitement in my young, bored, mind. In one particular case, a severely handicapped person got up to bear his testimony (the first Sunday of each month is reserved for "Fast and Testimony Sacrament Meeting, which replaces the normal talks with an allowance for anyone to come up and bear their testimony of the Gospel and of the Church). Although time has worn away some of the details, what I remember is an older man struggling down the aisle and up the steps to the podium. I remember his awkward and strained breathing patterns once they hit the microphone. I remember him struggling for breath. So as he began to talk, I was already perked up, ready for something strange and funny to happen.
When he started to speak in his extremely awkward, broken voice, I couldn't help myself anymore. I burst out laughing. Laughing like I never have before. Even though something inside me told me this was not the correct response, I had been taken over by the giggle bug. Almost immediately, my 4 older siblings took me to the floor and cover my mouth. But still, the scar that one caused is permanent.