Before the 9:00 service on Sunday, Jesse came running into the sanctuary and beamed a big smile at me, seeking reaction. Jesse is three years old, the son of a very young single mother, Lee, who attends regularly. The two of them came to the Super Bowl party last week at our house. Standing there in the sanctuary, smiling, he looked a bit wired. Like he'd had too many sugar cookies.

He was still wired after the worship team finished the song package. I sat down in the back pew, and could see Jesse being very fussy, didn't want to sit still. Lee stood up to take him out, but I rushed over and opened my arms. "I'll take him," I told Lee.

I'm certainly no child-raising expert. But I thought I knew what Jesse needed. He needed to run. Burn off energy. So we went down the hall toward the offices and Sunday school rooms, and for the rest of the service, we mostly did the "I'm gonna get you" mock-chase game. He was in high heaven, loving the attention of a guy and someone willing to play with him. Sometimes he screamed in delight, and I had to tell him to be quiet, which never worked.

About a half-hour later, I heard Pastor Tim ask the worship team to come up for the final song. That was my que. I had to get to the keyboard. So Joanna, who was in the hall, said she'd take over with Jesse. And I rushed into the sanctuary.

There really is something to this "it takes a village" stuff.