Last week I didn't quite get Marty's First Communion banner finished before CCD started, but I thought I could still pull it together by pickup time. I spent a frustrating 45 minutes at Hobby Lobby, where all the dowels are 36" long and the teenaged girl at the counter said, wide-eyed, "No, I don't think we have any saws in this store. I don't think we can cut that for you." This is a quarter-inch dowel, one which a frustrated person could bite in two without incurring too much soft tissue damage. I decided instead to find the framing guy. As you might expect, he did have a saw and was willing to slice the dowel for me. Unfortunately, I realized 20 minutes before pickup time that I had forgotten to sew the pocket at the top to hold the dowel. And I still didn't have all the stupid letters cut out and glued down. Argh.
I went in and said, "Can I bring this by later tonight?" The deacon waved an unconcerned hand. "Next week is fine." A more organized person, or a person with a less fierce and fiery loathing of felt banners, might have finished it up that night to get it out of the way. But I am typing this with gluey fingers, having put it off until just before my extended deadline.
And I must ask: what is the point?? Surely I am not the only person whom this project filled with dread and resentment and the urge to tear at things with her teeth in public places. (Well, maybe that last one was just me.) I am on board with the idea that handcrafts can be meditative and imbued with prayer. I'm the person who gave her goddaughter a pair of prayer socks as a First Communion gift last year, after all. Is it a sign of spiritual immaturity that I cannot pray, just cannot do it, with fabric glue and felt fuzz stuck to my fingers?
These banners happen every year, and it's nice to see the names of all the kids preparing for the sacraments. Isn't there an equally effective way to get their names in front of the congregation? I very much doubt that this is a fun parent-child bonding experience, because not many second-graders have the fine motor skills for the necessary cutting and arranging. I am imagining a parish chock full of exasperating* mothers, swearing under their breath as their children say, "No, wait, I changed my mind about which saying I want."
*ETA: Meant "exasperated." Perhaps I spoke truer than I knew.
It seems like a 70s leftover to me. We are required to include a host (ivory), a chalice (gold, or painful sunshine yellow (and I love bright yellow, so you know this is a seriously ugly color)), a bunch of grapes (or an alien from the planet Blob, in my case), the child's name, the date. The 70s part is that we can also include a bunch of other stuff, like rainbows and hearts. Okay, yeah, the flood as a symbol for baptism, the heart representing love of God, I get it -- but doesn't that scream 70s to you? Doesn't it sound like they only cut "unicorns" off the list in about 1981?
The boys like it, at least. "It's splendid," said Marty, who is chary with praise. Pete wanted me to make him a Thomas the Tank Engine banner for his very own. Pete, my love, I would give you a kidney in a flash; I would pluck out my eye for you if you really needed it. But I'm not making any more stinking felt banners.
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