I wrote this post a few weeks ago, a hodge podge compilation of more than one Sunday.
Sunday has its own special flavor at our house and in our little Mennonite community.
Probably it’s that way for everyone. Whether it’s the day you sleep in and go out for brunch or ride in the back of a pickup with Kenyan churchgoers in the hot sun or play the drums in your mega church’s worship team or clean your house before heading back to work on Monday, Sunday is unique. I feel sorry for anyone for whom Sunday is just another day.
Since church is high priority here, all morning activities are pointed in that direction. Dan showers and sits on the couch with a faraway look in his eyes, books scattered around him, pillow and blanket scrunched up nearby from his night studying vigil, pen in hand and notebook open. The rest of us eat cold cereal. I try to inspire the children to clear it away quickly and get ready for church.
Andre hates his Sunday clothes. High collars and button up shirts and belts make him hot and bothered every Sunday.
Natalia’s size 12 shoes are rubbing her, but the 13’s flop around. Tears.
There are also tears from her prompted by hairdos gone awry. Unfortunately, I am the hair comber. Finally we settle on a plain old braid. Thankfully Liesl is easier to please. She looks beyond adorable in her little side buns put up with colored clips.
Victoria the Put Together comes upstairs so I can pin her veil. Her hair isn’t going right this morning either, she tells me. Even though she has spent a ridiculous amount of time on it, as she concedes herself.
“Mom what shall I WEAR?” hollers the 10 year old.
There are rooster tails to water down. The boys tell Victoria that her high heels are stupid. And I know the secret that she has Kleenexes stuffed into the toes because we couldn’t find a smaller size and her heart was set on this first pair of spiky little heels. I forget to teach the preschoolers their memory verse.
I might be stressing over how long to cook the roast. Or that grey hair that simply won’t lie down. Or that I left too many things to do for lunch preparation when we get home. Or that my favorite dress is feeling tight.
I try to be calm and gentle, but those sentiments curdle as the morning wears on. I am the last one to the car. In the quiet house, I splash on some perfume if I remember to and throw on a scarf. The peace is so amazing that I think briefly of telling Dan that I’m feeling ill and they can just go on without me. But of course I know better.
We are not early to church, not late, and way too habitually in the nick of time.
Sitting in church, I sometimes wonder about other people worshiping. I know that it’s not 10:00 a.m. all over the world, but still I think about it. Would it be easier if we just went to church in blue jeans? What would it be like to breathe in swelling acapella music and not even have to sing along? What about a hand-raising, foot-tapping leader to follow? Or a smiling, swaying, red-robed black choir? How would I worship in China? What if we would all pray in tongues like our Russian friends not far from here? Is the little church that we went to when we lived in Belize singing the same song we are? Is there something wrong with us that our church stays so small? But we are in this moment for a reason. I know God is here.
We sing, 35 of us doing our best. I’m happy with the choice an old song that goes well but we haven’t sung recently. Sometimes with so few of us we get stuck in a rut and sing the same songs over and over. I close my eyes and try to focus on Jesus, all the while singing my heart out. The other alto is missing. And why is the soprano so weak? Oh that’s right. Joanna is sick today.
Brian with Down’s syndrome comes rushing in late. He is sad about something, and pours out his soul in loud whispers to Titus, who nods in sympathy. He sees other kind faces and tries to mouth across the room to Dan that something bad has happened. He probably heard that someone died. People dying intrigues him but also causes him much grief. He just really needs to talk it all out when he hears that someone passed away. He is also the fellow who loves to comment in Sunday school or any open discussion. Recently in adult Sunday school when Loren remarked dryly that there’s nothing new under the sun, Brian added, “Not under the moon either.” He was smugly delighted when everyone laughed.
I teach the junior Sunday school class. We’re studying warnings in Proverbs today, and CLP suggests taking cans with warning symbols on them to introduce the lesson. I’m feeling self-satisfied about the can of WD-40 that I found last night. It has four good warning signs on it. I have good students, their faces bright and their hearts open.
After sharing and singing the birthday song for everyone who had a birthday the week before, we have the offering. Liesl says out loud to me right in the quiet moment before the offering song starts, “MOM! Can I have some of your money?” Last week’s offering is still in the plate because last week the secretary was sick, so the offering got neglected. It is in the bottom plate, so Brian takes the top plate and Alec starts passing the bottom one without realizing there’s money in it. When it reaches us sitting near the front, we grab last week’s money out to give to the secretary after church. There are wide smiles all around. Andre whispers loudly, “Mom, you could put your credit card in!”
We have prayer requests, asking God for a school teacher for the younger grades at our church school next year. We pray for the man in our community whose wife just died, persecuted Christians, and Kevin’s employee with marriage difficulties. Dan announces his text in Matthew 18, where Jesus calls a child and sets him in the middle of the group of his followers and teaches them about being like a child. To demonstrate, Dan calls Andre up front, where he sits down beside him on the bench beside the pulpit and talks about children for a few minutes. Andre is embarrassed and leans way back against his dad. Dan tries unsuccessfully to help him sit up straighter. The object lesson doesn’t last long, and Andre is soon released to return to me. He and Bryant goof off. The tricky dogs lose their appeal. So do the books and notebooks. Andre and Liesl fight over putting their heads in my lap. Liesl is very grumpy and tired.
After Andre asks me three times in loud whispers about how soon church will be done and Liesl falls asleep five minutes before closing, we sing our last song and pray our last prayer. The children burst forth like caged animals set free. The youth girls huddle and speak softly. The boys hang out, all long legs and deep voices. Brian gives out his recipes, CDs on loan, or carefully be-markered notes with verses and stickers. We don’t use the traditional holy kiss much, the familiarity of our small group making it seem like a formality. We drift in and out of small groups, fellowshipping, chasing children, enlarging to include more.
I go home knowing that I’m blessed. I need them, this community of believers.
The rest of Sunday usually includes good food, guests, and sometimes nursing home singing. I feel deeply grateful and humbled when we sit down to roast beef after a church service. I say to the kids, “Do you guys realize how good you have it?” I guess I’m a fairly traditional Mennonite in my Sunday lunch preparations. Dan becoming a minister had a lot to do with this, as did the way I grew up. Always throw a few extra potatoes in the pot in case there’s someone at church who needs a place to go. Our friend Loren, estranged from his wife many years ago, is a common guest at our table. I love last minute company because then there’s no pressure to have everything perfect. But it’s a good Sunday, too, when we invite a family (from church or otherwise) and get out the china and spread the table long and have fresh rolls and pumpkin pie.
In the winter time, Dan and the older children sometimes go skating at the church rink on Sunday afternoons. After the last hockey game, Dan was groaning that he’s starting to feel 40.
If we don’t have company, we nap, take a walk, and read online, basking in that feeling of no guilt. We eat popcorn and chips in the evening, play games, or go visit someone. Usually we trash the house. It’s not bliss, but it’s good.
Whether we eat pancakes or roast beef,
sing old songs or new,
feel inspired or just tired,
stay at home or visit the neighbor lady,
I’m glad that Sunday isn’t just another day.
It’s an interesting life, this parenting business. I quite like it most of the time.
He still amazes me with picking up a new song and learning it, working figures faster in his head than anyone I know, and being SO strong. He knows my ugliest faults and loves me as I am. I cannot resist that kind of love.
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