My 3-year-old daughter is a Batman nut. She kinda’ thinks she is Batman. Not Batgirl, mind you. Batman. Most days, she pretends to be caped crusader leaping from cushion to cushion saving us all from evil of some sort or another. She has an assortment of Batman shirts she wears when she changes out of her Batman pajamas. When we go to the beach she wears her bathing suit and a batman mask. I’ve got pictures. I’m not proud of that you see, I’m just explaining. When I’m forced to peel her Batman shirt off and wash it she stands in the laundry room waiting. Impatiently.

Well, on Good Friday I suggested she wear a dress to church as we were going to pray for an hour. My three-year-old at first resisted this idea. And by resisted I mean she ran upstairs in an attempt to hide as she does every time she hears the word “dress.” (My efforts to dress her for a birthday tea party at an Aunt’s house are legendary and are still discussed by neighbors, a mailman, and the local branch of the SPCA. I’ll explain that some other time.)

So when I went up the stairs on Good Friday I half expected to find a little girl threatening the life of a stuffed animal if I took one step closer. But all I found was just a sad little girl sitting on the bottom bunk. After a struggle and some tears. (The struggle was mine. The tears were hers), I wrestled my little Batman into a dress. (She wore her Batman shirt underneath. I called it a compromise type victory. It’s a new term but I’m comfortable with it.)

My 11-year-old convinced her that she was just being Bruce Wayne for a little while although I don’t recall Batman ever donning a dress, but who knows. Gotham in the 70’s was a strange place, I’d imagine.

Anyway, we drove to our church while my 11-year-old read aloud from John’s Gospel. We arrived at just about noon. In order to remind them that they had to be perfectly quiet, as we were getting out of the van I simply said that as of 12 o’clock Jesus was dying on the cross and ...

Well that was all my 3-year-old needed to hear. My little girl leaped from the van, turned to her brother and sisters, waved her arm, and said, “Jesus is dying? Come on. We gotta’ go save Jesus.”

Uh-oh. Clearly time for a re-huddle. Perhaps I hadn’t made our purpose clear. While I tried explaining, my 3-year-old had the gall to look at us like we were nuts for not running into the church. I questioned whether bringing her was a wise idea at all. I thought that perhaps we should just go home. We could pray there.

My 11-year-old bent over and explained things better than I. She told my 3-year-old, “Jesus died to save us.”

“Oh,” said my 3-year-old. That was something she could understand. Three-year-olds understand heroics. 

So we went into church. And just so you know, she was perfect. For a whole hour. Until my 5-year-old slipped, banged his chin on the pew and landed on the 8-year-old’s finger. Then we had to go. Fast. But an hour ain’t too bad.

On the way home, my 9-year-old read the Gospel and I wondered how I’d convince my 3-year-old that her pink Easter dress would look Batmanesque.