Sundays.

One Sunday morning. I awoke less than refreshed.  It had been one of those nights that all parents everywhere can relate to.  My children had more nightmares than I had minutes of REM.  

I sat in bed and thought about what my day would entail. 

“Talking loudly” to get everyone dressed and ready to be at our 8:30am meeting. 

Shifting through my drawers trying to find one pair of nylons without a run.

Picking up endless Cheerios as they fly through the pews like manna from Heaven.  

Whispering to my princess to please please stop asking the Bishop for more “bread treaties.”     

More walking and weight lifting in Sacrament than a treadmill workout,

going back and forth for

bathroom time,

diaper changes,  

drink breaks,

and necessary emergency foyer visits.

I thought to myself,

A little list began compiling in my head:

I get to dress up.

I get to play dress up with my “dolls”.

Roast Beef and Potatoes is an unbreakable tradition.

No dessert on Sunday would be a sin.

 I get to teach children about God.

I chat on the phone with loved ones.

Lee drives.  I love that.

I spend more time with my family than any other day.

I receive chocolate chip cookies from guilt-ridden visiting and home teachers.

I get to see other friends who believe the same things I do.

I hear beautiful music all day.

Once this mental list was completely formed,
I realized that none of those reasons were really why I love Sundays. 
They were reasons why I like Sundays, but not why I love Sundays. 
I love Sundays because worshipping God is the right thing to do and it feels so good inside.  It makes me feel His Spirit all week.  It’s one easy way to show God how much I love him.  I go for Him.

It seems unfair though, because God always gives back more.
 I have often heard that young parents don’t get anything out of church because they are so busy with all little children and babies entail, but that is untrue in my book.  Every time I go to church, God has fed me.  Sometimes I am in the mother’s room changing a diaper and even though I haven’t heard a word of the talks that day, a sentence over the intercom will hold my heart.  Or sometimes I am in primary sitting in between two rambunctious eleven year old boys and the primary song will answer an unasked prayer in my soul.  Once in awhile it is even through my child recapping what he learned in Sunbeams.  Somehow, every week with three kids (three and under) and less than adequate REM sleep, I leave Sunday enriched and rested.  And I can’t explain it.  I have to remind myself,  “He fed the 5000.  So why not me!”

I’m not saying there hasn’t been Sundays where I was frazzled and all I could say to Lee was, “Get the kids in the car.”  Or days where I have sat through Sunday School wanting so badly to hear answers to my prayers but instead just receiving a less than mediocre version of The Fall complete with inappropriate comments about Kolob and dinosaurs …the whole time I frantically trying to get Boston from pulling Sister So-and-So’s leg hair.  There have been those days and I’d be full-on lying if I told you I have never left church a little early because of them.   But even on those toughie days, I can look back and say “Yes, that was a really difficult day but that one thing was said or that thought came into my head and that made a difference.”  It doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.

  I have found that when I keep my Sabbath Day holy as best as I can,  my week is smoother.  My life less rushed.  My Mondays through Saturdays sweeter.  I have found that my God is never looking for perfection.   He isn’t looking for quiet folded arms from children who are too young to do it.  He isn’t looking for copious Sacrament notes from a young mother or father.  He doesn’t even mind if I call my visiting teach-ees at the end of the month.  He just wants my effort – the best I can do – my widow’s mite.  And that’s what I’m giving Him. 

I do love Sundays.