The Legend of the Four Year Old Indian

Nathan Stam
Children/Communications Pastor

The first of a series of Thanksgiving Blogs over the next few weeks...

I know we all have a lot of warm Thanksgiving memories as we look back over the years. Well, here's one that's a bit chilly:

It's tough being a four year old. You want to be taken seriously. You're independent. You're processing vast amounts of information and are trying so terribly hard to remember the difference between an oval and a circle. Oh, and you can't sit still. Sitting still literally makes your brain feel like it's going to spontaneously combust. If you have an older sibling you want to do whatever they get to do. You want to be in elementary school. You're ready for the school bus and can't understand why you still have to take those awful afternoon naps. Life is tough.

I was four years old, once. Hard to believe, I know. I have several four year old memories that I still hang on to, and one in particular that I wanted to share as Thanksgiving approaches next week.

I didn't have an older brother or sister, but my best friend was five and he was already in Kindergarten at Baucom. I remember being extremely jealous that he got to go to school. But Thanksgiving rolled around back in 1981 and I was invited by his teacher and our two mothers to come take part in his class Thanksgiving play. Oh, if I could only convey the giddiness and the sense of accomplishment and pride that I felt when I was approached concerning my role. I was to play the part of an Indian coming to eat with the Pilgrims and had absolutely no lines. I quickly and readily agreed to the plan.

That is, until the day of the class play. Until I was dressed in my costume. My memory is a bit fuzzy on this point, but I think I had some soft-soled Moccasin slippers for my feet and a loin cloth. That was it. Nothing else. I remember my Mom applying some war paint while I shook my head and tried to get out of it all. I mean, I liked the slippers, but the loin cloth was a bit much. I felt cold.

Thinking back, I don't think it was because I had a highly advanced sense of modesty. At this same period of my life I would run around our yard in nothing but my Batman underwear chasing bad guys and untying trussed up babysitters (who still delight to remind me of those moments). Modesty wasn't it.

I think I just got cold feet. Too much pressure. There was too much riding on my performance. And so, to my everlasting shame, I refused to go into the classroom.

Anyway, that's one of my earliest Thanksgiving memories. How about you?