smashed potato

There is a 6-year-old boy that goes to my church, named Benson. Benson can be a handful, but I like him. He is funny and dramatic and… a handful.

Tuesday night all eight zillion of the kids {or that’s what it felt like} poured into the chapel, and as the crowd cleared and took their seats in the pews, Captain Dwayne started asking who in their right mind would bring a potato into the chapel. We’d had baked potatoes with dinner and one ended up on the floor of the chapel, trampled like Mufasa. Not many people really noticed the cleaning up of the potato, and Dwayne eventually said he didn’t even want to know who brought the potato.

Fast forward a few minutes. I asked three kids, one of them being Benson, to come to the front and help me lead a song. All I know is that when I looked to see why he hadn’t come up yet, Benson was frantically patting down the pockets and sleeves of his coat.

“What is wrong?” I asked Benson when I got close to him.

“I can’t find my potato!!!” he said urgently.

It took every. thing. in. me. not to start cracking up. I regretfully informed him that his potato was gone.

He kept telling me he had a potato in his pocket when he came into the chapel. I finally convinced him to stop looking, because the potato was gone.

 

Maybe you have to know Benson. Maybe you have to have been there.

But it was one of the funniest things of all time.