Every weekend, a Sunday demon descends on our house, determined to make us curse our way out the door for services at church. This past Sunday was no different. We had a busy day ahead, as we had committed to go to one chapel to pray over a family during a child dedication, then we had to leave to head north for beach baptisms (in what looked to be stormy conditions) and a picnic lunch with the congregation from our chapel. The afternoon held a third event for Matt and youth group for two of the kids.
Everyone was up and dressed in plenty of time. One was already protesting that she would NOT eat oatmeal (not with a fox, not on a box..not here or there…not anywhere…she doesn’t appreciate literary allusion). I shrugged at her. Everyone seemed mostly ready.
As soon as Matt uttered the words, “Let’s go!” chaos ensued. Someone’s shoes flew off their feet, because they wanted to change clothes. Another ran down the street to see a bunny at the neighbor’s house. The picky eater declared that we were trying to starve her, and she had not eaten anything ALL DAY (it was 9:20). One hopped in the car and began asking how long each event was going to take.
Like mad goat-herders, we worked to get (and KEEP) everyone in the car. “No you may not go grab just ONE thing! You can go to the bathroom AT the chapel. No, I don’t know how long it will take, but it is only a mile away, I think you will make it. Yes, we are going to the beach. Yes, I know it looks like it is going to rain. No, you will not be getting baptized again today….” And the questions kept coming as we drove a mile down the road to the chapel.
As we walked in, my brain felt like it had been beaten with wet noodles. My shoulders and jaw were clenched, and I thought, “Let’s just get this over with so we can get to the next thing.” We were greeted by our friends and the chapel staff who explained our part in the child dedication service—Matt and I were going to pray over a 5th grade boy and his mother. A Bible was shoved into my hands a minute before the service was to begin. “Here, write an inscription in this for the boy you are praying for,” the children’s leader said.
I tried to keep my right eye from twitching as I prayed my most theological prayer: “HELP.”
My hands shook as I tried to collect myself enough to ask what God would want in this young man’s Bible. Then, the words rushed out in ink onto the inside of the front cover: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and don’t lean on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge God and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6”
I read the verse over to myself as a prayer of repentance, and prayed for the young man—that he would open that Bible again and again, learning to love and follow God. My world felt as though God had pressed the reset button.
When the service began, I was thankful as I looked down the aisle at our little goat herd—even for the one who gave me a dirty look. The child dedication was beautiful—families dedicated children of all ages. I fought tears as I prayed for the boy and his mother. As Matt and I returned to our seats, I dabbed my eyes and swiped a tally mark in the air, so our Sunday demon could see—he’d lost again. I’m so thankful for a shepherd who loves us so much—who keeps coming to find us—perhaps especially in our Sunday morning messes.