Lily Has Two Lines and Says She Can't

I think a shy child needs about four run-throughs of a two-line part, and I think most of us parents go well past that and call it helping. I include myself. The first three passes teach her the words. Everything after that teaches her what my face does when she gets them wrong.

Lily is eight, in third grade, and quiet in the way that makes adults help too loudly. She has a half-sheet with two sentences typed on it and her name penciled in the corner in someone else's handwriting, and she has announced that she can't say them. The children's sacrament meeting presentation comes in the last months of the year, so September still has room in it. I'm the ward music chair, which means that on program day I'll be up near the piano with a clear view of the third-grade row and no way whatsoever to mouth a word to her. I think that's a mercy.

The two lines are not the price of her seat

Every child from three through eleven sings in the program, and the short spoken parts sit on top of that. If Lily never says her two sentences, she is still in the row and still one of the voices, and I have to settle that in my own head before I touch the half-sheet. Once I talk as if the sentences buy her a place, a small piece of paper turns into a gate.

The General Handbook says what the invitation is for.

"When children are invited to speak and pray in church settings, their own testimonies of the Savior are strengthened and they feel part of the body of Christ."

Strengthened is a slow word, and it doesn't wait for a clean delivery. The Church's guidance for the presentation is plainer about the hour than I am.

"Because of the sacredness of sacrament meeting, the presentation should not include visuals, costumes, or media presentations. The event should not be thought of as a performance or a celebration, but should be an opportunity for the children to share and demonstrate what they have learned."

I believe that, and I can still feel the show creeping in. A room full of people who love these kids leans forward when a child goes quiet, and kindness is how coaching starts: a little louder, from the top, eyes up. Watch an eight-year-old at that point and her eyes leave the page and settle on your mouth. She's reading you now instead of her sentences.

I taught third grade for five years and could pick out the drilled children before they opened their mouths. They stood very straight, said it all in one breath, and looked at me to find out how it went.

How I plan the practice

The first time through is plain reading, and she finds out the sentences are short. Trouble starts on the pass after she has already reached the period, when I want it once more, slower, with the last word held. A stumble then sends us back to the top with my voice in the middle of it. So I ask once, start to finish, and take whatever comes. If she asks to go again, we go again. If I'm the one asking, we're done.

Where we practice turned out to matter more than I'd guessed, and the kitchen while the pasta water heats is fine, since the pot gives us both something to look at. The car is better, because nobody has to stand up straight in a seatbelt. After that I add one audience at a time: a grandparent on the phone, then Ben, who will clap at anything. Her class comes next, full of children with their own lines who are mostly busy surviving them. By the time she reaches the chapel it should be the same words in a bigger room.

Praise comes after the attempt and stays small. "You got to the period" is enough. A speech about bravery sets her courage out where people can clap for it, and then she has to carry the clapping too.

David coaches, and a note is how he shows he cares. He'll want the second sentence cleaner. I'll ask him to say "good" and stop there, and watch him find out how long a one-word note feels.

What I'm not going to do

I won't try to make her outgoing, mostly because I served in Brazil and I still want the kitchen to myself after a long Sunday, so I'm the wrong woman to talk her out of it. Helping her do one hard thing is allowed. I like her on an ordinary Wednesday when nobody has handed her a microphone, and I'd like that Lily to still be there in December.

I won't hold up her brother as the measuring stick either, though "Caleb wouldn't be scared of this" is a sentence I can hear myself saying on a tired day. (He has his own way of falling apart, and I wrote about what helped when my sixth grader cries over math.)

And I won't pull the part this week because she said she can't. Then "I can't" becomes how an ask ends, and the next microphone is heavier because she never found out that two sentences fit in her mouth. A child who never tries collects no evidence she could. I can believe that and still be unkind about it, though, which is why "you said yes, so you're doing it" is not the speech she'll get from me.

For nerves the toolbox stays small, and it starts with one slow breath out before she starts. If she's game, one try at closing her eyes and picturing herself getting to the period, and if she laughs at me we'll drop it. Any more and two sentences grow a kit she has to remember on top of the words. The same goes for what I said about the sacrament prayers: nobody is grading what goes on in her head.

Prepared is a bigger word than two sentences

Somebody will eventually quote me the last clause of Doctrine and Covenants 38:30, kindly, as a reason Lily should stop worrying. The verse is longer than the clause.

"I tell you these things because of your prayers; wherefore, treasure up wisdom in your bosoms, lest the wickedness of men reveal these things unto you by their wickedness, in a manner which shall speak in your ears with a voice louder than that which shall shake the earth; but if ye are prepared ye shall not fear." (D&C 38:30)

That verse tells a people why a warning is coming, and the warning has enemies in it, and a voice louder than an earthquake. Two verses later they're told to go to Ohio. Prepared, in that sentence, belongs to wisdom treasured up and a commanded move, the readiness of people whose ground is shifting. It's a strange word to paste onto a few passes at the stove. Borrowing "ye shall not fear" to close a talk with my eight-year-old would shrink a line spoken into real danger, and she'd notice. She notices when a verse gets turned into a reason to stop feeling what she feels.

What I can take from the verse is smaller than that, and it's that she should know the sentences well enough that a blank second has something to come back to. The fear can sit down beside her anyway, and I won't announce that scripture has canceled her stomach.

Back in section 6, thirty-two sections earlier, a different word snags.

"Behold, I do not condemn you; go your ways and sin no more; perform with soberness the work which I have commanded you. Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not." (D&C 6:35-36)

Perform. The Church guidance says the presentation is not a performance, and this verse says perform, and I don't think they are fighting. Here it means do the work, and soberness means leaving off the extra flutter we add when we want to be admired. Two sentences said like she means them would count. A mother conducting from the front with her eyebrows would not.

Frequently Asked Questions

Should I let her skip if she's already this upset?

I wouldn't decide that in September with weeks of calendar still ahead of the program. "I can't" this far out is a feeling, and a feeling in the first week is a poor forecast of the Sunday. On a morning when she's shaking and done, I'll sit with her, let the class sing, and spare her the explanation in the foyer. Until then the half-sheet stays on the fridge.

How many times should we practice the lines?

Once she can say both sentences, a few passes in different rooms, and then I stop asking. Around here that works out to three or four times in a week, spread out, and never three or four times in one evening.

What if she forgets halfway through on the day?

She can stop and look to her teacher for the first word of the sentence, and the meeting will go on without a conference about it. Afterward I'll tell her she did it and we'll head home, no speech attached.

What do I say instead of "don't be nervous"?

Telling her not to be nervous asks her to manage my comfort on top of two sentences. Her hands will be cold, and I can say so: the nerves mean the room matters to her, she's allowed to feel them, and she can still say the words. I'll say it once and leave it there.

When is this more than a case of ordinary nerves?

When she doesn't want to come to church at all, or isn't sleeping, or the same dread shows up at school on days nobody asked her to speak, I'll call her doctor and won't wait for the program to pass. A tight stomach over two sentences is ordinary, and ordinary still deserves a plan.

My plan is to keep the practice small enough that these weeks don't teach her to hate standing up.

So here is what I'd like to know. If your quiet child stood up with a short part, how did you tell the difference between practice that was helping and practice that was building the dread? I want to hear the moment you stopped.

with love, Melissa