Abide · the idea bank
The rest of the year, things to swap in when a week doesn't suit, and what to do when it rains sideways.
January to March. Same shape, same box — just a different tray each week. No dates on these: drop them in wherever your term falls.
January · cold and bright
Ice hands, frozen berries, breaking the puddles. Warm water in jugs to melt things.
Refill the feeders from November, sit still for two minutes and count. Two minutes is generous.
Fake snow, salt trays for finger-drawing, cotton wool. Works whether or not it actually snows.
January is nothing but mud. Lean into it — mud kitchen, mud painting on paper, hose at the end.
February · first signs
Cress on cotton wool, beans in jars against the glass. Something to check every week after.
Whisking, pouring, flipping, eating. Enormous mess, enormous joy.
A slow lap of the churchyard looking for anything green. Bring one thing back each.
Collect twigs, moss and wool scraps. Build a nest big enough for a toy bird.
March · things waking up
The bulbs they planted in September. Nothing beats a two-year-old finding one.
What floats, what sinks, what happens if you stamp. Rigorous work.
Digging, wormery in a jar, putting everything carefully back.
Moss, stones and grass seed in a seed tray, one each to take home.
April to July, when you can finally count on being outside for the whole hour.
April · rain and green
Giant wands, washing-up liquid, a windy day. Twenty minutes minimum.
Cut-down bottles pegged outside. Check it every week for the rest of term.
Nets and a white tray. A bucket of pond water on a table works just as well.
Fat chalks on the path. Draw round each other, then wash it all off with brushes.
May · flowers and creatures
Petals, water, jugs, sticks for stirring. Perfume that smells terrible.
Lift the logs, look underneath, count the legs. Magnifying glasses if you have them.
A paint swatch each; find something outside that matches. Genuinely absorbing.
Bottles and funnels gaffer-taped to the fence. Buckets underneath. Chaos.
June & July · long mornings
A builder's tray of sand and every scoop you own.
Paddling pool, sponges, a car wash for the ride-ons. Towels ready.
Decorating brushes and buckets of water. They "paint" the church wall. It dries.
Measure the ones you planted. Mark each child's height beside them.
Pick, squash, print with them, eat some. Purple hands for days.
Blanket, bubbles, every song you've sung all year. Parents invited.
For when the planned thing won't work — wrong weather, missing kit, or you simply can't face it.
Tarpaulin down, tray on top, same idea in miniature. Nobody has ever complained.
All singable by a two-year-old, all with actions, and none of them tell a Bible story — so nothing here clashes with Sunday school. Pick one a month and sing it into the ground.
Short, physical, and the same every time. If it takes longer than two minutes, it's too long.
If you ever want to change the whole thing rather than a week of it, these were the runners-up. Keeping them here so you don't have to think it through again.
Advent, Lent, Easter, Pentecost, harvest. The calendar plans it for you and it teaches them the shape of church life without a single story.
Shakers, ribbons, marching, one song a month and nothing else. The lightest possible version of this group.
Sharing, waiting, gentleness. Fits exactly where two-year-olds live, though it needs a careful hand to avoid becoming "be good".
Picture books, free play, snack, one song. Honestly designed as much for the mothers as the children — and no shame in that being the point.