Day of Rest

As seen in the Sand Mountain Reporter Newspaper
Saturday August 2, 2008

Sunday morning comes with the promise of worship, fellowship, peace… Well, peace is a stretch. Our Sunday mornings come at the speed of light, riddled with every conceivable catastrophe.

Saturday nights have morphed into “the old folks at home” most weeks, peppered with an occasional dinner out. Even so, we have trouble getting to bed at a decent hour. Whatever tasks are required for Sunday are frequently left until bedtime Saturday night since the week is so chaotic.

So Sunday morning comes. I always feel a little sleepier, partially due to the late night, and partially because the temptation to lie in bed all morning is a mighty one. The clothes are pressed and laid out (if they weren’t, no one would ever manage to get out of the house.) Yet even with the night-before preparations, the calamity strikes. In earlier days, spit-up played a role. Without fail, the spitting up covered both the baby’s clothes and at least one adult outfit. More recently we’ve happily gotten past spit-up as a bodily function that delays, but others shift into the vacancy. Then there’s the inevitable leaving-behind of something important. Or, as the wonderful parents that we are, forgetting to feed our son breakfast. In our defense, it was a weird morning and he went back to bed for a nap before church-unheard of! So with the leaving behind comes the going back, which always takes a bit longer than you expect, because you catch sight of your hair in the mirror, and believe me, it needs work!

This Sunday morning, I was so proud of myself that I got up and got ready in time to go to early choir practice! That extra sleepy factor usually sucks me back in. Almost ready, my husband comes in the room to say he’s been called in to see a patient and will meet us at church, later. We go into express mode to get Rafe ready, with opposition at every step: he doesn’t care that his nose is disgusting or that breakfast (that he was lucky to get!) is still on his chin, he doesn’t want to get cleaned! I finally get us both in the car and realize that the shoes I have on just won’t work because I have a blister on my toe from wearing them the previous day and I can barely limp along. Going back in, I realize I had left my notes for children’s sermon on the kitchen table, spattered with oatmeal, no less. After changing my shoes, dropping my cell phone (my prop for children’s sermon) twice, and tripping on a small wooden animal, we were on our way: to worship, fellowship, and just maybe, a little peace.