Sunday Mornings

I am about to admit something that I am not so sure if I should. I really don’t like Sunday mornings. I desperately want to say ‘hate’, but we don’t use that word in our house. 

I am not sure what it is about Sundays that turn me into a military sergeant wanting to be in charge of a vagabond band of unruly and unwilling troupes. To get my family out of the house requires all sorts of cajoling, pleading, tutt tutting and sometimes even yelling. So let’s look at a typical Sunday morning at my house...

7:30am – if the clock shows this time and I am not showered and at least dressed, I am already running late. Not a good sign. Children are usually up being their lovely needy selves expecting cups of tea and stories in bed. Daddy usually obliges while I blast around the house laying out clothes and shoes.

8:00am – must have at least started eating breakfast. Needs to be inhaled, I mean ingested, within about 15-20 minutes, shame my two year old cannot read the time and thinks mummy’s pleas to eat quicker are hilarious. No porridge, eggs or French toast on Sundays at our house, Weetbix or toast - don’t spill any crumbs.

8:15am – I finish getting ready and begin getting the girls into their clothes.  It is usually at this time that my husband, who is enjoying a morning not rushing off to work, disappears, for quite some time. I fluster about with our two daughters and their beautiful hair, requiring lots and lots of brushing, product and agonising over sitting still so styles can be performed in a reasonable amount of time.

8:30am – ensure all teeth are brushed and shoes are in place. Hide snacks in handbag in case service goes long or children become noisy.

8:45am – everyone in the car through a cloud of questions about toilets, teeth, hair, jumpers, permission to allow toy monkey church attendance and a final nappy bag check.

8:51am – walk calmly into church, shake hands with greeter, find seat (number 74, blue on aisle) and finally, look at husband and sigh.  Phew, made it.

Does this sound familiar to anyone? It is so hard getting everyone into their Sunday best and their butts on a seat by 8:59am. But why? I get my children ready for school all the time and we leave well before 8:45am.  I ponder these things between when the service starts and when my husband finally accepts that he has to love me despite my nasty pre-church behaviour.

I have two theories regarding my utter dislike of Sunday mornings.  

Theory number 1:  It is hard to keep it all together. ‘Sunday Best’ means just that. We have to look ‘right’, despite the pants kind of week we have had.  Lippy must be in place and hair done just right; ensemble selected and pressed on Saturday. Who makes up these rules? Me. I was raised believing that getting dressed in our best clothes was a sign of respect to our faith, which I still accept. And, I like to look as if I do have it all together; I mean really, what would people think if I turned up in my Oscar the Grouch pyjamas with bed hair, eating yoghurt straight from the tub? I would be whisked away into a quiet room given a cup of tea and a comforting hug from the pastor’s wife. Yipes! Not that Wendy isn’t totally lovely....    

I know that I say I don’t care what people think of me and I want to be as individual as the next person, but I don’t want to rock the boat. I want to look as if everything is okay, even when it perhaps isn’t. It can be easier to carry the illusion of togetherness rather than be vulnerable about where we really are at.  It is a shame, but an unfortunate reality in big churches.

Theory number 2: The Devil loves Sunday mornings at my house. I truly believe that Satan loves heading to my place on Sunday mornings, in fact, I think he comes somewhere in the middle of the night so he can get front row seats for the show. He then lets fly with his trickery, spite and impatience, revealing the worst in our family (me in particular). Why would he bother? Have I mentioned anything about God at all in this diatribe about church? Hair dryer malfunctions, spots on clothes, arguments with spouses, children who go crazy with Crayolas while wearing petal pink linen minutes before getting into the car, these are all things that distract me from thinking about God. Sunday is meant to be a day of rest and reflection, yet I have turned it into a mine field of potential disasters.

A few months ago I seriously considered not going to church again until both my children could tie their own shoes and make me a decent cappuccino.  It was all too much, but it was then that I looked down and saw my eldest daughter singing her little lungs out to ‘How Great is Our God’ and my younger daughter spinning in circles at our feet with her hands raised.  I realised that church is about worship and fellowship.  It wouldn’t matter to God how I was dressed or what my family ate for breakfast, but what does matter is that I give myself time to appreciate all that God has poured into my life.

I am getting better at Sunday mornings; don’t ask my husband, he may disagree.  But I am trying to learn the art of worship through the process of getting ready for church.  Beautiful music to listen to, earlier out of bed to calmly get myself together and taking the time to smile at my family have helped.  However, just for a laugh, one day I might turn up to church in my Oscar the Grouch pyjamas, ready to worship God and thank him for giving us a venue and an outlet to worship freely. Oh, and if I do, Wendy, I take my tea white, with ¾ of a spoon of sugar, not too strong please.