Typically, I wake like a dragon, slowly and with much groaning and growling and stretching. I mumble hate at my alarm clock; it offends my existence. At some point, I emerge from my pile of blankets and bliss, almost able to form a coherent sentence (but most likely not quite).

Oh, and look. I’m already running late.

So I’m off to the shower, grouchy if one of my parents has beaten me to our one bathroom (they usually do since they both wake like birds—early, quickly, and far too cheerfully). So then it’s back to my room to dig through the closet to pick out my clothes.

Wore that shirt last week.

I don’t even like that skirt.

Would it be bad to wear all black?

I wonder if I could wear a scarf with that.

These clothes are my favorite clothes. Bright colors. Ruffles. Flowy skirts. Boots and heels. Oh, and some even sparkle.

And I’m getting later by the second. I rip things off their hangers and out of their drawers before practically falling downstairs. It’s a quick shower, filled with mutterings, mental lists of all the things I have to do, and loud singing at random intervals. I only drop the soap on my toes twice before I’m out and wrapping my hair in a thick towel.

Fifteen minutes and counting before I’m supposed to be out the door. Two minutes for throwing some clothes on; five for some quick makeup; nine for looking for my black flats (I’ll probably end up in the nude heels again at this rate); three for dragging a brush through my wet tangles.

And there it is. I’m late. Again. As always.

So then I’m tripping out the door, remembering the notebook, pens, and Bible but probably forgetting something else. Hopefully, my earrings match, but let’s be real here, they probably don’t. My stomach and I grumble because we really wanted that marshmallow cereal for breakfast.

It’s a hasty drive and crooked parking job, but I don’t have time to fix it. Tumble out of the car. Hustle across the parking lot. Straighten skirt. My heels click scuff click on the blacktop as I scurry to the nearest entrance. When I finally plop down at a table, I finally slow down a little;, it’s a good class. I take notes and try to answer questions, relishing the learning, enjoying the existence of my classmates and my teacher, this group of us who come together every week at 9:00 am.  The class lets out ten minutes to 10:00 am, and my fellow students and I scatter, each ticking off all we have to do and all the people we need to talk to before the next hour begins.

It isn’t until I’m sliding into a pew with my parents and sister while we’re told to turn to Hymn #11 that I pause. I’ve known what this day is all about since before I woke. I’ve known what Sunday is about for as long as I can remember. Yet, we haven’t spoken at all today. Well, He might have said a few things, but I was too distracted to hear. And there’s this sudden sense that despite my favorite clothes and hymnal in hand, I am not ready to be in this place of worship. The tang of the organ and the smooth voice of my pastor fall into the background as I sigh.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, I’ve bought into the idea that getting ready for church is only about putting on nice clothes, bringing my Bible, and being on time. In all my angst, I never put thought into what I was doing to ready my soul.

This is the story of most of my Sundays.

The realization hits me at different times. Sometimes it’s as early as the shower. Sometimes it’s in Sunday school. Sometimes it’s during announcements while I’m flipping through my bulletin. It’s always the same, somewhat sinking, sense of regret and distance, and I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to prepare for a social engagement; I want to get ready to worship.

So that’s all I got today, kids.

I hope you wonderful peeps don’t mind this post; it’s just been on my mind a lot for the last few months, and so I thought I’d share it. What about you? What does your Sunday morning look like? Church? No church? Nice clothes or sweatpants?

With love,

Rosalie