Sunday, Sunday

I love a Sunday morning. It has a certain vibe to it, probably from 56 years of conditioning that Sunday is a Day Apart.

I remember when we lived in Illinois. We moved there when I was 5, and then to Georgia when I was 9. Sundays involved Mom insisting I wear a dress (BLEH!), and church was close enough that, weather permitting, we'd ride our bikes instead of driving. I never thought anything of it. The place we attended, a Presbyterian church, had a very contemporary style sanctuary. After the service I would go up with a couple of other kids, and blow out the candles, then dip my fingers in the hot melted wax to make fingerprints.  Sunday Dinner afterwards was always something Mom had put together to slow cook in the electric skillet, or whatever that thing was called that was a precursor to a crock pot. Usually it was chicken and rice. That's still my favorite meal although I make it a little different from the way she did.

After we moved to Georgia, we started out at the little church near our house, up on the top of the hill. Something Happened, and we changed to another small church in town. It's the one where I took Confirmation Classes and had my First Communion. I was able to convince the (whoever...pastor? Elders? I don't know) that we should be allowed to keep the little cup from that Communion. I still have it somewhere.  Then Something Happened, and we changed to a large church in the big town nearby. I don't know what happened, but I have learned over time and maturity that someone would do or say something that my parents disagreed with, and we'd move.

Same pattern after we moved to Alabama when I was 17. Start out at a church, get pissed, move churches. Eventually I married and moved away. I wasn't as diligent about attending church then. Sundays involved a certain "do I feel like it today?" until the kids were old enough to need Sunday School, and we began attending regularly again. There were still days of "do I feel like it?" or perhaps, with so many children, someone had a cold or something. But I enjoyed the fellowship and was a regular participant in Bible/book studies, handbell choir, and the like. 

When I had a mental breakdown (another story for another time) I found I'd have serious panic attacks when I was in the worship service. I discussed with the pastor, who, fortuitously, also had a PhD in clinical psychology. He suggested I skip the main service, and do what I could. Perhaps attend the smaller evening services held in the little chapel. Those were much easier. Then we moved. For some reason the panic attacks stopped (Thank goodness!) and we began attending main services again. Until we had to stop, again.

My second son had some serious allergies, and being around people wearing perfumes would give him terrible headaches. We tried sitting in different parts of the sanctuary, even up in the balcony, but there was always someone wearing too much scent. So we quit attending services, just going to Sunday School, and I attended weekday Bible/book studies and handbell choir. 

Then we moved. The kids were in middle/high school by then. For 5 years we didn't go to church at all. I didn't want to go alone (we let the kids make their own decisions about church when they started high school), as my husband worked 7 days a week. I thought it would make him look bad if I went and he didn't. Until one day, a friend called me a White American Heathen (She's a Black Ethiopian African) and said I Needed Church. Ok, fine, so we (one of Himself's rare days off) visited her church (A Presbyterian one) and I was instantly hooked, and started attending regularly again. I went whether Himself could or not. The youngest (4th grade by this time) came with, and made friends. After a year we put Son4 into the small private school associated with the church. I made friends, attended Bible/book studies, and joined a weekly Prayer Group. I learned what a Real Church feels like, with family, accountability, help in a time of need. 

Himself died, church helped immediately after, kids fell all apart and I heard things like "Oh dear!". A few men stepped in to try and help with Son4 (16 by this time)...but not much was done to help with the older kids (in their 20's) and I was struggling mentally and spiritually. I met Capt, and because of reasons, left the church and we moved here.

Now, we've tried to find a church, having visited a few. We started regularly attending one, and I did some Bible studies and helped with the Children's Program a bit. But, because of really logical reasons, and a strong feeling of betrayal by the leadership (not my story to tell but it's ugly), we left. We had never formally joined but...anyway. We left.

Now, we don't have a church. Sunday mornings are spent drinking coffee, catching up on the whatever, maybe one of us will go back to bed for a bit. I spend time thinking about life, and philosophizing. 

I kind of miss Church, the fellowship, the dressing up a little, maybe having lunch with someone afterwards. I miss all that. We are at a turning point in our lives right now. Maybe moving soon, so getting involved with something is kind of pointless, at least until we know what we're doing. I haven't left God...Oh no. He's done too many good things in my life for me to want to do that. I have too much gratitude to wander away. That said, the man-made institution of organized religion had an unpleasant taste in my mouth right now. There's a lot I do miss but there's a lot I don't. I have seen some of my good friends hurt and betrayed by the institution into which they put their entire trust. I want to be very careful in how we choose one. There is no perfect church. They are all made of flawed human beings, but somewhere there is one that will minister to our particular needs, and in which we can also serve effectively and help someone else who needs it. 

In the mean time, I maintain this feeling that Sunday is somehow a Different Day from all the others. It's a day of rest and reflection, of remembering where I came from and to Whom I should be grateful for what I have.