Story, Value, and Becoming More Real
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The Mud Queen

July 3, 2025

Glynn Young

When I agreed to co-teach a Sunday School class of second graders, I had no idea of what I was going to experience. And it wasn’t the kids.

It was my co-teacher, Carl.

He recruited me. We both had our youngest children—boys—in second grade. The Sunday School class needed a teacher. We’d met in an adult Sunday School class, but we weren’t particularly close friends. We knew each other mostly through our youngest children; we both had sons the same age.

“Look,” Carl said, “they need a teacher for the second grade. I can entertain the kids, but you’re the teacher. We have to make this fun. We can show the kids that Sunday School is fun. And so is learning about God.”

It’s still hard for me to imagine, but Carl was the chief financial officer for a large manufacturing company, and about as different as you might expect from a titled numbers guy. He had a king-sized sense of humor, a propensity for pulling pranks, and always telling jokes. You’d see Carl, and somehow it was difficult to imagine him making a PowerPoint presentation to a board of directors.

When he proposed co-teaching Sunday School, I didn’t know what he meant by fun, but I soon caught on. He’d organize activities like Bible-verse relays, while I focused on teaching. But, inspired by Carl, I stretched the definition of teaching to include word scramble games, using crazy hand gestures to memorize the books of the Bible in order, and even an occasional song. Carl managed anything that required physical energy, which covered any number of activities. Scavenger hunts outside. Relay races involving Bible verses. Contests to see who could shout the loudest to bring down the walls of Jericho.

Amazingly, we didn’t bother neighboring classrooms. Usually.

We drove the Sunday School coordinators crazy. We had the sweetest lady who became visibly nervous whenever she saw us coming. Once she even ducked into the women’s bathroom to avoid what she knew would be the latest wild idea.

In late February, the coordinators, teachers, and kids arrived at church to find our classroom dismantled, furniture stacked in the hallway, and several ceiling tiles removed. Confronting them was a camping tent occupying the entire room. The coordinators listened as Carl explained that our end-of-year celebration in May would be a weekend campout at a state park about 15 miles west. And our classroom had just turned into a big camping tent to give the kids an idea of what it was like. Carl had even rigged up an artificial campfire.

For the next three months, camping frenzy ruled our Sunday School class.

About this time, a new student joined the class. Jessica was tall, quiet, apprehensive, and painfully shy. And borderline terrified. Her family had just moved to our city, and she was still trying to deal with a new school, making new friends, and a whole new life. Carl instinctively knew how to work with her—he had two older daughters, in addition to his son. He parked her by two of the other shy girls, introducing Jessica and the girls to each other. 

Two weeks before the campout, Jessica’s mother caught me after Sunday School.

“She doesn’t want to do the campout,” she said. “She’s never been camping, and she’s never spent the night away from us before.”

“I’ll talk with her,” I said. “She can come just for the daytime activities. She doesn’t have to spend the night. But you might want to sneak a small overnight backpack in your car trunk.” I grinned. “With Carl in charge, Jessica just might change her mind.”

Her mother smiled with the experience of her shy child. “It’ll never happen. But we’ll try it and see. I won’t tell her.”

“You and your husband can join us for daytime activities, so you’re there if she needs to talk with you.” 

We had a plan. But neither her parents nor Carl and I thought she’d spend the night camping.

The campout started on Saturday with a cookout. Kids and parent volunteers had their tent assignments. We had one for Jessica in case she decided to stay.

It was madness, chaos, and, just like in class, fun. Carl had organized the chaos in such a way that it worked. The kids were having a ball.

Jessica and her parents showed up about 2 p.m. As Carl and I greeted them, two of Jessica’s friends from the class came running up and dragged her off to the games in the big open field next to our camp. She was there for the hot dog cookout and for the s’mores marshmallow roast around the big campfire in the field.

By this time, it was dark. Her parents walked up to me, and her mother handed me the backpack. “She’s told us she wants to stay. I don’t know if she’ll last the night, but please call us if she needs to be picked up.”

Two things happened that night. 

Jessica stayed, never once asking to go home. Our Sunday School coordinator was one of the adults in Jessica’s tent, and she said the girls chattered happily away until they fell asleep.

And it rained. Not a light, refreshing rain, but a gully washer than went on for hours. The tents were waterproofed, and experienced camper Carl had wisely chosen where to place them—on elevated ground away from natural runoff. 

The next morning was breakfast and then a worship service. We gingerly moved around what had become a sea of mud. But the playing field had become swampy. Carl’s planned activities looked like they were non-starters.

But something as trivial as an overnight deluge was no match for our intrepid Carl. 

“We’re going to hold a contest,” he said, “for the King and Queen of the campout.” He paused. “The Mud King and Queen.”

I was used to Carl’s zaniness, but this seemed, well, even wild for him. The kids looked at each other dubiously. 

He led all of us to a depressed area of the field that looked like a very shallow pond. And then he walked into it, sat, and proceeded to cover himself with mud. 

We stared. At first, no one moved. I heard a few “Yuks” make the rounds, mostly from the adults.

I turned to return to the camping area; parents would start arriving soon to pick up their kids and someone would have to explain. Plus there was a faucet and hose by the tents, and I would be the cleaner-off-er. 

I looked back to see the boys jumping in the mud, soaking themselves and dumping mud on each other’s heads. When I reached the tents, I heard a shout go up; a king had been chosen. From a hundred yards away, I could see it was now the girls’ turns.

Off to the left, I could see a car or two pulling into the parking area. Jessica’s parents were in the second car. I heard another cheer go up. Some lucky girl had been chosen queen.

“How’d she do?” Jessica’s mom said.

“She did great,” I said. “Slept through the night, ate a big breakfast, did the worship time, and then went on to the contest.”

“Contest?” her father said.

I nodded. “I’m not sure if she participated or not. It was optional.”

At that moment, the kids came into view, with Carl in the middle of them. More parents were arriving behind us. All of them stared.

Unless you’ve seen 30 kids covered head to foot in mud, it’s difficult to describe. If it means anything, the mothers stared in shock, while the fathers began laughing. It was a moving mud pit, with arms and legs.

One girl, or what appeared to be a girl, broke free from the group and ran toward us. It was Jessica, with a large pile of mud on her head, dripping down the sides, her clothes mud-drenched, and her bright eyes staring out of her mud-encrusted face. 

“Mama! I’m the Mud Queen of the camp out!”

Jessica’s mother burst into tears.

Jessica’s father hugged me.

“It was Carl’s idea,” I said. “He’s the one you should hug.”

“If it’s okay,” he said, “I’ll hug you in his place.” 

Carl and I would go on to teach the same group for third and fourth grades. The campout became a church legend, and the mud contest became the culminating activity of the next two campouts. Jessica even crowned her successor.

But I’ll always remember that first year, when a flower bloomed in the mud.



The featured image, “English Roses,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.



 

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