Verity's Book

Sunday (Tag?)

Most of you have probably noticed I'm not around here on Sundays. In fact, it's rare that I even get on my computer on Sundays. For me, it's the day of rest and the Internet is a distraction that I find I can easily do without for 24 hours. But... what do I do in those 24 hours?

Here's the rundown.

7:00 a.m.

The alarm rings. It's not for me, it's for Mercy, but since I'm on the bottom bunk, I have to turn it off. Groggily, hoping to wake myself up as little as possible, I push up on one elbow, push the switch, and sink back into a drowse. Vaguely I hear Mercy climbing down to work on her memory verse.

7:30 a.m.

Someone's standing by my bed. Mercy. Wonderful, it's time to get up.

"Verity, it's 7:33."

"Got it," I slur out, and savor a few more delicious minutes of slowly waking up before I lurch out of bed and head upstairs to breakfast. Sometimes my mom makes a coffee cake or a crisp for Sunday breakfasts, something special; today it's just toast. I'm still tired, too tired to be very hungry, and only manage to cram two pieces of bread down my gullet. I hurry downstairs to my still-warm blankets, hoping to get some more cozy cuddles before 8:00.

8:30 a.m.

On any other day of the week, I would still be asleep. Instead I'm standing at the kitchen sink, fully dressed down to sweater and shoes, rinsing off the last of the breakfast dishes. From the living room come the loud moans of Constance, my four-year-old sister, getting her hair brushed. I wander in to observe the procedure.

"I need my SHOES, Mommy... I need to get my shoes!"

Nice ploy.

I grab my Sunday bag, which is sadly minus one of its handles, and head back to my room to study my memory verse for Sunday School, which my sisters have dutifully been working on all week. The flip side of good short-term memory is procrastination. Still, I did finish the lesson last night, so I don't have that to worry about. I plunk myself down at my desk and pull out the strip of paper. Acts 16:30-34. "Sirs, what must I do to be saved?..."

9:00 a.m.

Time to head out the car. I step out into the bracing October morning of probably 46 degrees, suffer a momentary qualm as to the adequacy of my sweater, and decide to brave it anyway. The car is full of the noise of eight children, most of whom don't seem to know that this small, enclosed space is not made for raised voices. Almost everyone is doing last-minute Sunday School memory. But no-one is quarreling, and overall the atmosphere feels cheerful.

The parents appear; it must be 9:15 or thereabouts. Mom settles down on the passenger side. My father slides with his practiced grace into the driver's seat and turns the key in the ignition in almost the same movement. Five minutes later, we're turning into the church parking lot.

The church building is warm, the faces inside full of welcome. Everyone seems so glad on Sunday mornings. I feel contentment, quietude, and bubbling joy; a smile bursts out of me in answer to every "Good morning".

Today is the first Sunday of the month, and that means I'm the piano player. I set my bag down in our pew, walk to the piano and arrange the books there, and peek into the kitchen to check the time. 9:25 -- time to start the prelude.

9:30 a.m.

The last chord of the prelude dies away. My father, standing behind the pulpit, raises his head. "A warm welcome to all who have gathered here this Lord's Day to worship with us," he says, his voice ringing throughout the sanctuary with warm conviction. "Members, visitors, friends from afar. Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Will you stand with me now, as God calls us into his presence, to worship."