I grew up in a church where we called the spiritual leader of the church the “preacher.”  Sometimes we called him pastor or minister, too, but mainly we called him the “preacher.”  When my sons were about 3 and 6, we got a new minister at our church, which was the habit about every four years.  I wanted the new preacher to meet my children, and I wanted them to meet him, so after his first sermon, I went to the nursery to get them to go meet the preacher.  I had told them at home about wanting them to meet the preacher, and my husband and I had talked a great deal about the new preacher.  All seemed normal until I got to the nursery to pick up the children.  Michael, my younger son, started crying when I told him it was time to go meet the new preacher.  I couldn’t understand why he was crying.  It wasn’t as if he wanted to stay and play in the nursery; he just didn’t want to go with me to meet the preacher.  I could tell he was afraid.  I kept telling him it was going to be okay, that the preacher was a nice man, and he just wanted to shake his hand, maybe pick him up and give him a hug.  Michael cried all the more.  I kept heading back to the church sanctuary with him in spite of his tears and clinging tightly to me.  Finally as we were standing in line to introduce ourselves, Michael wailed at the top of his lungs, “I don’t want to meet the creature.  Please don’t make me touch the creature!”  Bless his heart.  He just misunderstood the title.