A typical Sunday morning.
I had endured two tantrums while getting the little one’s pants on him, fished my car keys out of the toilet and argued with a five year old that even if you dress up the dog, she is not allowed to attend the 9:30 service.
All that aside, I was encouraged when we arrived only four minutes late. We piled into the pew and I was smiling again. I was ready to worship the Lord.
This is optimism at its best, as I should have known in the sanctuary is where the real battle begins, and I am not talking about the one between good and evil–although the glint in the little one’s eyes does freak me out a little sometimes.
All forty five pounds of my five year old suddenly catapulted off the pew and into my chest causing purse shrapnel to scatter, and creating an awkward pause in the congregation’s Amazing Grace while I gathered gum wrappers and pennies from the middle aisle and quietly retrieved a nylon sock hanging from a sleeping elder’s nose. In the meantime, something whizzed past my head and it was then that I selflessly jumped into the path of a sippee cup that was headed straight for our preacher’s heart.
Both soldiers were dragged out of the room and then administered the torture treatment that gave this battle it’s name: The Battle of Wounded Behinds.
While frustration pushes heavily on my brows these mornings as I rub them in utter exhaustion, I still trudge my way down that aisle on Sunday. Some Sundays I sit in the nursery aggravated, thinking it will be my last one, but I don’t stop going; I won’t stop going.
Someday my children will remember mom dragging them down the aisle with my fingernails embedded in their skin and my lip white from holding in my anger with my teeth.
Their church family will recall hearing a smack and a wail coming from the room behind the coat closet and that meant one of the Duncan boys were in trouble.
I have not always attended church although I have always loved the Lord, but when I found a church family, I found people who help keep me on the path during the times when I stray. Most importantly, I also know that my children are forming bonds that will hopefully carry over through the years and no matter how far away their life takes them (hopefully not too far) they will always have a place to come back to and call their church home.