A Fairy Tale
“A long time ago in a far away land called Single without Children there lived a young woman. She was skinny and young and had cute clothes & jewelry and hair that had been expertly colored at a salon. And, she was young. Her work day lasted eight hours and she promptly left the office at 5:00pm. Evenings and weekends were free and easy and the young woman enjoyed doing all the things she loved the most. Sundays, however, were the best day of all. Sundays meant church and the young woman loved being at church. She’d rise a bit early, shower and get dressed, taking time to fix her hair just right. A quick stop at Starbuck’s to grab a grande mocha and then she was off. On the way there she would listen to worship music and pray, thanking God for another opportunity to worship Him and to be with His people.
“Then one day the young woman met a prince. He swept her off her feet with his humor, his talent and, above all, his love for God. Before long wedding bells rang and the young woman had a bun in the oven. Little did she know how drastically that bun would change her life.”
It’s been eight years and Sunday mornings have never been the same. The single most stressful morning of the week, Sunday is to motherhood what plate spinning is to the Ed Sullivan Show…a frantic display of prestidigitation which can come crashing down at any moment. On Sunday mornings I come out of the shower sweating. There is always, and I mean always, the desperate search for the missing shoe, pants that no longer fit, hair that wasn’t washed even though clear instructions were given, moth holes in new trousers, spilled milk, spilled juice, spilled coffee and spilled patience.
By the time I get into the car my stress level needle is nearing the red. It is then pushed upward by comments like, “Mom, what’s my memory verse this week?” and “Did I forget my Bible, Mom?”
Arrival at the church then signals the boy to switch modes. My normally loving, good-humored son morphs into Mr. Surly. This is his attempt to display his 8 year-old independence in front of his friends. Allowing mother to straighten his unwashed hair or to wear a jacket in 20º weather is unthinkable. Add in a good dose of groaning and eye-rolling and by the time mother hits the front door of the church the last thing on her mind is singing. Try as I may, I’ve yet to find a way to arrive at church in a worshipful frame of mind. Instead, I arrive frazzled and thinking of anything and everything but worship.
I suspect I’m not alone.
{ 13 comments… read them below or add one }
Love it. Anyone who doubts the reality of spiritual warfare should see what my house is like before church on Sunday!
I can only imagine, Shannon
Four is a handful!
Very cute. I love it.
Sounds a bit like my every morning, including Saturdays with it’s jerseys, special shoes, shin guards, mouth guards, special socks and balls that need pumped up again. Oh, and water bottles. And sometimes a snack for the whole team. I’ve given up by Sunday.
I suspect I’m not alone.
In which case, you suspect rightly. {sigh}
Oh, I remember those skinny glory days….
Now Sundays…well, I’m right there with you. Except trying to get the kiddos to church an hour before everyone else, then while I’m getting things ready for Sunday school Thing 1 and Thing 2 are disrobing and it is a race to find their sweaters, shirts, shoes, socks and Bibles before others arrive. Once we found Eli’s shoes and socks in the baptismal, so bizarre. Don’t know how they could have ended up there.
Ah well, God loves the disheveled too.
Nope…not alone. And, since my husband has to be at church about 2 hours before we do…I get to do the Sunday morning plate-spinning act by myself.
And, can I just say that I love the fact that you used the word “prestidigitation”!
Love you!!
Prestidigitation! Prestidigitation! Prestidigitation!
Love you, too!
Yup! We used to attend a large church where we had to park a couple of blocks away and then walk to services (thankfully, it was So Cal). We always laughed to ourselves that the walk gave us time to put on our “church faces”.
After 3 kids, we finally made it a Saturday nights a priority. We avoid social activites on Saturday nights and, instead, spend the time making sure things are ready for Sunday morning, relaxing, and getting to bed on time. That has made a huge difference!
Another friend with small children has a checklist for Sunday mornings — everything she needs to be sure makes ti to the car. No more diaper bags, Bibles, and lesson books left behind.
My preacherman hubby’s axiom is “Sunday worship starts on Saturday night.”
Yep – I have to confess my blackened heart as I walk through the sanctuary doors on many a Sunday morning. And yes – Suzanne has the answer. Pray and prepare Saturday. Showers are taken Saturday afternoon, clothes are laid out, Bibles and shoes are on the stairs by the front door.
But Jules – the very best part of this whole post is the middle frame of the cartoon. Girl, you captured it. Perfectly. I can’t look at it again till I swallow my coffee.
I never knew you were a fan of Munch.
Not really. A little Edvard goes a long way.
Oh… oh… oh…. I have had those days…. those SUNDAYS, especially.
I’m with Suzanne. It’s all about the preparation. Reading Karen Main’s “Making Sunday Special” really inspired me. We try to avoid Saturday evening commitments and do as much prep we can the night before… and it can still all go in the toilet, because it really is spiritual warfare. But it’s better when we’re prepared. And, to be fair, it’s not just prepping our clothes, but our hearts. I have trouble being worshipful if I’m still engrossed in a dramatic action-flick from the night before, so I keep Saturday evening calmer and family-centered.
Of course, there’s always the M.O. of the mom of many whose kids were always dressed in their Sunday best, but somewhat rumpled. She confessed that the kids SLEPT in their church clothes!
My word, you are not alone. And our Baby #3 will arrive any day now. How in the world will we make it then? Add to that the fact that my hubby WORKS for the church. I hate looking hideous all the time. And I hate pulling the girls’ hair into ponytails instead of brushing it…and forgetting to brush their teeth…and feeding them in the van on the drive over. I’m horrible, I know.