Sunday Morning

To snooze or not to snooze? That is the question!

I wake at 6:30 a.m.. Early, but earlier would work better. Make the bed, make my way downstairs, hug Don and head to the kitchen to put on a pot of decaf.

Sunday morning presents temptations that resemble those of the rest of the week, yet they make a different mark on the day, the person, the family, and on society as a whole. Quite an effect. No other day can claim the same.

My experience with Sunday morning varies by stages of life, and hindsight, as always, appears clear as a bell now that I can look in the rearview mirror and see the errors of my ways. I spent my childhood Sunday mornings waking, dressing, and jumping into the station wagon to head a few miles down the road to Sunday School and church. Every Sunday, no question, no days off for good behavior, no sleeping late, no alternatives. All weeks followed in succession without deviation, until I started college.

Strike up the band, baby ... FREEDOM! Suddenly on my own, in a way only college can offer, and feeling the pull of life without Mom and Dad and the world I had known for 17 years, made me lightheaded and lax. Class time and studies brought serious work, but in the off time, I sang a "me-me-me-meeeeee" tune really well. I did what I wanted, which did not amount to much, did not fall into anything unlawful or immoral, but also did not mirror the life I had lived up to the minute I hauled my luggage into a dorm room. Four years of college with church attendance here and there with friends, and of course, during holiday breaks. Summer brought employment which sometimes took up my Sunday. No snoozing, just dreams of days off from work.

From the free Sundays in college, I moved to marriage and work, and Sunday morning meant coupon clipping from the Hartford Courant newspaper and grocery shopping at Stop & Shop and IGA. A woman on a mission to save money, I made Sunday morning "full" with double or triple coupon savings and a car trunk full of food for Don and me. No prayer, no possibility of salvation, but save, save, save in the bank account. Time had no essence -- at twenty-three, I felt virtually invincible and free of the harness of time. Young forever, and Sunday mornings could reserve time for church when I grew older, which I did not plan to have happen. My grandmother acted as my conscience, asking, "Have you found a church, yet?" every time we visited. I felt guilty pangs, but none strong enough to move me past a list of handy excuses.

Finally, at age thirty, we stood on the threshhold of parenthood, months from bringing a child into the world. As a pregnant woman, I decided to head to church, conveniently located on the corner, about 75 yards from our home outside Philadelphia. I walked to 1st Baptist church each Sunday for the 8:30 a.m. service, and walked home again at 9:30. I have no idea what I heard on any of those mornings, but I had attended church. When newborn daughter and husband joined me at church, we added social time of about 20 minutes. Long enough to have a donut and coffee and then walk home. Churchgoers, now, but not hooked, and without substance. We took days off, we hit "snooze" and we made excuses, and brought another child into the world a few years later, but never knew anyone's name or had a visit from a pastor. We left that church without anyone really noticing, I suppose.  We moved across the state and didn't feel compelled to announce our choice to uproot and plant ourselves elsewhere.  Lonely, being in a church without ties.

We made our new church home in the church in which I grew up for 20 years.  It took the name "home" in name only, due to the simple fact that I had attended church there every Sunday of my childhood.  It did not feel comfortable, except for knowing the names of people and understanding the order of service.  We became members, took offices, and made sure our children attended Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, and acclimated to the church nursery, as needed.  When the church began to fall apart due to hierarchy issues within the denomination, it was my husband who took the reigns and found us a place to worship.

His opinion mattered, having grown up feeling "unchurched" except for Sunday services and flag football games known as "youth group".  I feel sure he had more than that during his childhood, but he recalls no real ties, except for the binding effect of dressing up and having to go to church each week.  Unwillingly.  Without a heart for it.  And so, on a Christmas Eve, we dressed up, packed up and hurried up to the church he chose for the Christmas Eve Candlelight service.

We were awed, humbled, and planted in the right place.  Finally.  After 15 years of marriage and no faith ties to speak of, we had found a place to belong.  I was a "going through the motions" Christian, he was a fledgling, baby Christian.  We have grown past those phases, had our own set of ups and downs, find our children growing up and starting to grow away, but the one thing we share -- definitely and steadfastly -- is Sunday morning at church.  It is here we hear, study and take in the Word.  It is here that the Word drives us home and makes us think more, see more and learn more.  It is here we don't feel unsure or unmoved or unreal.  It is here that God delivered us, and now, makes us see where we need to try harder, to read, pray and lean.  We have a home.

Amen.