Sunday morning. My family’s sanctuary.
We are ensconced in our home. Hubster made a big brekkie for himself and T1, I’ve had two coffees. T2 is watching Netflix, and my girl is, unfortunately, bored. Her demeanour does detract from the element of a happy family in sanctuary.
Growing up, Sunday mornings were the busiest, most rushed morning in our home. My parents, my two brothers and I each gobbled a bowl of cereal. We fought over who used the bathroom next. We retreated to our rooms to dress then rushed off to church, all before 9AM. We returned each week after 1PM, starving and hopeful that Mum had set the oven to turn on in time for the roast to cook. Sundays were an unpleasant day, the idea of a quiet place, a restful and relaxing morning far from my actual experience.
Of course, the idea of church being a sanctuary for dark souls is not lost on me. But that wasn’t my experience. It wasn’t a horrific time. I never endured any of the reprehensible ills that many others were unfortunately subjected to. But it wasn’t peaceful or a refuge. Sure, I had friends, and I always felt safe and known, but church felt like a scramble. There were many rules, some spoken and imposed, others undeclared and yet still somehow known and censured. There were people to engage with, jobs to perform, money to tithe, admonishing lessons to listen to while sitting still and upright. Afterwards, we raced off home to have lunch, before repeating it all again in the evening.
Now, I guard Sunday mornings jealously. I love the restfulness, it’s just us here in our home. Sometimes it goes awry, like today with my girl being bored, or constant asking for iPads, but it’s all good. It’s my family, the peeps I love.
And that’s all I need.