Sunday Mornings are never easy
Whoever said Sunday mornings were easy was NOT an evangelical Christian with the obligation of assembly.
Growing up, Sunday mornings were inevitably stressful with the putting on the nice dresses, making sure everyones hair is in place, don’t forget your bible, we’re already 5 minutes late for Sunday school, etc.
A few years ago, they were personally stressful due to how much responsibility I felt on any given weekend. I created the content about to be shown to the public, was in charge of it’s presentation, and often also had some duties in stage playing ye old piano or guitar. It’s no wonder I felt simultaneously exhilarated and suicidal.
(yes, I am making a small joke about suicidal behavior. So sue me. Oh look, a joke about libelous behavior! She won’t stop!)
But seriously, I know folks across the country are right now watching as their hard work is unfolding in front of a congregation of people, feeling the anticipation, and when something goes wrong, the stress. I know a few people right now sitting behind expensive pieces of electronics, hoping the next few seconds are as smooth as the last, as they wait for the tipping point to arrive. There is a tipping point in every service, when you can breathe easily and know that it’s all good.
If I had to be the one standing on stage delivering a commentary on the Gospel and it’s meaning, I assure you suicide would be no joke in this post. I would be in great danger. I have deep respect for the men in my church who are willing to address the crowd on subjects that require careful handling. And to do so with passion and urgency is a testament to the power behind their subject matter. So a little stress from a pastor on a Sunday morning is completely understandable.
Today, my Sunday morning isn’t stress free, but for reasons so different it seems I’m living someone else’s life compared to my past experience.
I am sitting on the couch this morning, not attending church. The guilt from breaking the rules of my childhood is strong, (you go to church no matter what.) but it seems the decision is made for me without my input on too many occasions. Logistics and circumstance are often stronger rules than ingrained ethics.
Shannon is a gigging musician. He earns our daily bread by keeping odd hours (gig til 2am, and again at noon) and I appreciate his dilemma. And since we’re a one car family, the decision is made for me.
Sometimes the decision is made by a one year old. Who gave her deciding powers in this home? Sometimes her nose decides for us. Sometimes her lungs. Sometimes her ears. How weird, right? Although lately that hasn’t been the case, I feel somewhat justified in keeping her with me on Sunday mornings instead of putting her in the nursery. As inconvenient as it can be, Easter was her last bout of sickness. A stark contrast to her every 3 weeks routine (go in nursery, miss next two Sundays, repeat) so I’m more than willing to keep her with me.
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
It is what it is.