There were seventy children at the camp I attended this week. Although they were meant to wear nametags such accessories have a way of crumpling up and floating to the floor. Still I spent mental calories trying to learn their names and enjoying their wardrobe selections. But I was anonymous to them. 

Each grown up is expected to teach one class, and the schedule assigned me the story of Moses in the bulrushes. In the week leading up to camp I sewed a dozen doll bodies in a spectrum of colors, and gathered threads to match. Next I sewed little toupees of brown and gold and black. Probably the real Moses had chocolate hair but such accuracies are irrelevant to a five year old.  Finally I filled a bag with snowy sheep's wool. 

The children sat in a circle at my feet. I was no one of any consequence to them but like most young children in my acquaintance they were open to liking me. First we sang. That warmed things up a bit. Then I asked if any of them have babies at home. Four hands waved like flags and one girl clarified that the baby coming is still in her Mama's tummy.  Then I told them about baby Moses and how his mother put him in a basket to keep him safe. 

My co teacher and I handed out cotton bodies and pre sewn heads and plopped wool in front of their laps. The children stuffed their babies, some more, some less. Then we introduced danger. Threaded needles. 

I am a believer when it comes to children sewing and repeated the mantra of "I push, you pull" enough times to attach twelve heads to as many bodies. We brought out the embroidery floss and each child made simple eyes and smiles to bring their doll to life. 

The colors I brought were predictable enough. Brown, green, blue for eyes with pinks and red for mouths. When it was her turn a little girl told me her preference. 

"Violet eyes."  While I had steered the kids wanting blue smiles or red eyes to more conventional choices I pondered this one. She held the spool of purple thread in her small hand. I mumbled something about how regular thread is not as thick as embroidery thread but she was unflappable. We proceeded. 

Moses woke up with violet eyes. 

Each child chose a basket and lid for their baby and my partner and I cleaned up. The babies were adopted. 

Later at worship one of the children looked over her daddy's shoulder at me and smiled.  Walking on the path between buildings another little girl and her mother stopped to chat. 

"Would you like to hold him?" She gently handed me her doll. Two seconds later her protective instincts kicked in. She took him back. 

While at breakfast I had been merely an adult with a nametag too hard to read, by mid afternoon I was a trusted friend. The catalyst for that transformation was a shared task. 

Marriage is rampant with tasks. Some mundane, others exhausting. It can be easy to see them as detours from the Real business of enjoying each other. 

But sometimes I suspect that they are as real as it gets.