Sundays. The day of rest. The day my heart longs for much of the week. The day I get to sit with Bible cracked open, waiting for words to unravel my wound-up heart. It’s the day that hidden mysteries are opened, exposing things I didn’t know needed revealing. It’s a busy day, but it’s a different day. It’s like the kids just know it’s Sunday. They sleep those extra 20 minutes, and for once I seem to have uninterrupted time with God before the day begins. Sundays are the day my boy thinks I look the most beautiful. He waters compliments on me on this first day of the week like I am the most attractive woman in the world. Sundays we read through the Psalms as a family and then sing a corresponding Psalter number. Sundays are special, but I don’t always treat them that way. Some Sundays are hard. Some days my heart is hard.
I won’t sit here and pretend that I do Sundays completely alone, or ask for a pity party. But some Sundays, like today, are difficult. It’s like this domino effect of one natural disaster after another. The first Sunday back after vacation proved to be one of those hard days. I thought I had life in order. The house was decent going into this new week. I was prepared to be at rest. Yet, unexpected, swirling slowly around me came all the “hard, busy, (I know I’ll miss these days/beautiful) mom stuff.”
Keep moving. Sundays don’t provide much wiggle room. 6:47am: Start the coffee. 6:51am: Caramel macchiato stirs itself into black liquid, creating my favorite, rich, bold scent. I can’t wait for the first sip. 6:53am: Birds sing their sweet song as I read through my devotions. My heart is heavy, remembering those who carry afflictions. Why does it seem the older I get, the more hurt there is? Maybe I just see it more plainly. I read it there clearly, that when we feel out of our comfort zone, that the Holy Spirit is there providing solace. That those places we feel tender are God-given opportunities to be wrapped up in the tenderness of the Comforter. My heart wavers a bit. Really? That family whose son and brother just died of cancer? That tender wound is an opportunity for them to feel Your tenderness? What about that woman I just met who miscarried? My heart aches for her. I know that pain, Lord. That other hurting woman? She is out of her comfort zone, walking a path she never imagined. That friend is struggling with family strife. There is much division…You know that Father. It’s 7:03am and as the clock ticks, more people come to mind. I journal it out, all these people, all these silent prayers, so that I remember them in days to come. My prayer ends, “Give me patience and joy.” Striking that I ended my prayer for what I would lack most in this day.
7:12am. Children still slumber. It’s nice I think, not to have them awake with me yet. More time to ponder. I start the oven; cinnamon rolls bake as I head up to shower and ready myself for church. I have a little under 2 hours yet. I’m on top of life so far. Shower done. Blow dry hair, greet kids who tumble out of bed. They are full of anticipation. They remind me they have Sunday school today. 7:27am: Throw blow dryer to the counter and follow smoke downstairs. Cinnamon rolls are done but fallen cheese from yesterday’s supper burns itself onto the oven. 7:45am passes as I continue to hand kids their breakfast. It’s 8 something now. Curl a daughter’s hair, begin to curl my own, feed the baby, shove more breakfast at the kids, instruct them to get ready, glance at the clock again…time is getting away from me. Wet brush runs through my half curled strawberry ringlets and suddenly a snag. And not just a small knot to be combed through, but a complete standstill. Aren’t wet brushes supposed to have special powers for these kinds of snarls? I just showered, what is in my hair?!?! Annoyance spills over. I don’t have time for this. Sorry older girls, I won’t have time for your hair this morning. I wet my hair again, rub some shampoo in it, blow dry it, and still it’s caked with something…toothpaste? Who got toothpaste on the brush? Why is this happening to me? Baby girl paws at my feet calling my name. It goes from needy to urgent. Over and over, “Ma, ma, ma.” I shuffle past her, throw my shirt on, rushing, rushing, this Sunday morning. She wails. I rub some conditioner on those tangles for good measure. Try to curl a bit of the sticky again…it’s as good as it’s gonna get. Bolt downstairs, baby in arms still screams. 9:10am. I’m hurrying, late, sweating, as I strap the wailing child into her car seat. I smell it then. A very soiled diaper. Ugh. Baby back out, she squirms ferociously against the diaper change. Back in the car seat. 9:13am. For this family, that’s late indeed. I’m full of apologies on the 30 second drive to church. Something about an unsolved toothpaste incident comes out of my mouth. I will myself to just be quiet.
30 seconds to church…if that… our 3-year-old bawls in the backseat. We are almost to church, and her seatbelt never clicked properly. It’s enough to ruin any 3-year-olds Sunday. She cries all the way from the van to the steeple doors. Her purse falls and the wails come louder. Can I just run back home? We are a mess. I want to tell my husband, “This is what a hot mess is.” When people try to greet you, welcome you back to their fellowship, and all they see are your flailing arms and screaming children, this is pretty much the picture of what a hot mess is. I pull crying daughter into the nursery, along with the baby, and try to calm her down. I prepare myself to walk into church. I wonder what time it is now. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone. It just might break me.
We enter the sanctuary and it’s a mad dash to sit next to the baby. Are you kidding me? Can we make more of an extreme entrance into church? Does anyone around want to referee for me? Let me know which child won and deserves first place as most selfish child? I’m beat red, flushed with embarrassment, humbled very low. Why is it that this minister’s family seems to be the least put together? I firmly place kids in their assigned seats.
Quiet. Please, just a little quiet. I open my devotional, try to prepare my heart. It is beating fast, so fast. The tears start to pool. Why do I want to cry? Can everyone see that I just want to let the liquid loose? Why would it be such a bad thing to let it all go? I feel so pathetic. This shouldn’t feel hard. It’s a blessing. I stifle my emotion back.
Baby girl spits loudly and playfully from her seat. I whisper to my boy, “Put her pipe back in.” He whispers for the whole church to hear, “WHAT?” I think even the 90-year-old couple behind us could hear him. I try again, “Please put her pipe in.” He thunderously repeats, “WHAT?” I want to crawl in a hole. “Jayden, just put Alison’s pipe in.” He looks at me like, “Oh, why didn’t you just say so? No problem.”
Whew…ok…surely this time all will be quiet. Then my boy clears his throat and snorts through his nose.. Once. Twice. Three times. I can’t handle it. Allergies? Bad habit? I don’t know. I tap him, tell him he has to try to stop doing it. Baby sucks on her toes, kids have to point it out to me. They exchange glances, which turns into stifled giggles of, “Isn’t she just the silliest thing?” Yes. Alison is hilarious. The cutest baby ever. But let’s focus on church. I glance back at my devotional and see I missed a spot shaving this morning. Oh, and did I forget to put deodorant on? Cue the not-so-subtle sniff test. Yep, it doesn’t smell like lilacs, that’s for sure. Grrr. I could kick myself. Why don’t I just keep an extra stick of deodorant in my bag? So much for focusing on church. I’m as bad as my kids.
Husband who doubles as minister walks in. I give myself to silent prayer. I hardly remember what I prayed for. I’m terrible. Baby screams. I need to get out of here. Diaper bag thrown over my shoulder hits children in the face as I walk out. I do a mock curtsy in my head to everyone watching this circus show as I make my way to the narthex. I can’t even hide the frustration. I give a fellow mom the one eyeball protruding out of my head look. I fall into the chair next to her, sweating profusely. Post pregnancy hormones are getting the best of me. I tell her I forgot to put deodorant on this morning, as I search for the 7-year-old Bath and Body Works travel lotion in my bag. Ah-ha! “It’s just one of those days,” I say, as I feign a smile and rub lotion under my arm pits. I am so crazy. I can feel it, but I just don’t care. No one wants to smell these arms stink at full force. She smiles at me like she understands. It brings some relief.
I try to listen to the sermon. I know he will ask how it went. He always does. It’s part of the routine we have developed over the last decade of our life together. Some days I don’t know what to say, what weight my words can hold to encourage him that the Lord is blessing his labors. I know his work doesn’t depend on me, but I love sharing in it. I love him for wanting to share it. I have developed fondness over this small piece of what makes us, “us.” But today I am not sure what will fill the conversation between us when I can’t hear a single thing he is saying. Mothers tend to their babies in the back of church. I wonder if their mornings have been similar, if they feel they are slowly losing sanity on this day of rest. I glance over at that dark haired beautiful momma. I wonder if she has toothpaste in her hair too. Probably not. All I can think is, “I don’t feel like being here.” It’s a terrible thing to think, I know. It makes me swell in shame. My heart is pregnant with pride.
I hear the words, “He is Lord.” I utter a silent plea. A silent complaint…”I don’t want to be here Lord…” Although I don’t hear much over the complaints of my baby, over the complaints of my heart, I hear it through the preacher loud and clear, “This is where you need to be Cherith.” He talks about how Jesus is Lord. As a servant I have no choice, He has made me His. He has complete ownership and authority over me. I know my attitude needs softening, my zeal kindling.
I try to let the words of the message rule my interactions with God’s people following the service. I will myself to fellowship. Baby girl kicks in my arms as I try and interact with sisters in Christ. She spits up. Not just a little, but all over her sister’s hair down below. I rub it in with a blanket. Older sister never notices all the puke that just hit her head. Interruptions come from my other kids. More crying. I realize I need to leave. I can’t do this anymore. I just need to go home. Cry in private that this Sunday isn’t going how I had planned. I drive home with part of my family and wait for the other half to show up later. Sometimes you just need to fall apart to see how God is fitting it perfectly together.
I catch a small nap, and when I wake, I send the older ones to church with their Dad. I let the baby sleep. She needs it. She is behind. I feel spent and I’m not sure why. I remember a wise friend telling me it’s ok when we can’t do it all because that’s exactly when we see that God is there doing it for us. I’m pushed to the front porch. Fresh cut grass mingled with rain dances through my nostrils. I breathe deep. Things are quiet. Peaceful. God is here, using this small moment to gather and prepare me before the chaos returns home. The sinking sand I have been walking on all morning becomes firmer as God gathers me and I lift my prayer to Father. “Show me You are Lord…bend my will to trust You as Lord.” Prayer journal cracks open again, and I see it there once more, “Give me patience and joy.” I had prayed it this morning, and yet, so quickly, I had trusted in my own arm of strength. He is Lord. Not me. Depend on Him. Scrawled there are names of family and friends. They are living in the hope that the losses of life are gain. God gives grace to remind me He is lovingly shaping me. You. Us. In the big and small moments. All for Him. Yes, all for Him.
I didn’t hear much today, but I did hear, “Jesus is Lord.” And that was more than enough God given gift for my soul to be tuned to praise. My will wailed, “Father, I don’t feel like it,” and He sweetly and tenderly gathered me to Himself to say, “Lord, I don’t feel like it, but You are Lord, and the fact that I don’t feel like it is proof that this is exactly where I need to be. He moved my soul to be comforted when it was uncomfortable. So, this Sunday didn’t go as I had planned. But in the end? I’m thankful. Because just like everything, it's all part of His perfect plan.
Sundays. They are special indeed.
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