Psalm 127:3 Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.
I cherish the moments I spend in church with my children worshiping the Lord. It’s such a peaceful time of togetherness and joy. They listen so attentively. They sing so passionately. They behave like the little angels God created them to be.
OK I cant even type that without laughing.
Truth be known, my children always seem to become infected by a little case of the crazies from the moment they wake up on Sunday mornings. They are grumpy. They are tired. They are slow to move. They aren’t hungry and refuse breakfast. This then transforms their mother, who always wakes up hopeful on Sunday mornings, into suddenly a not so lovable person. I end up yelling like a lunatic when, just a few seconds earlier, I was singing Toby Mac in the shower as joyful as can be.
The ride to church isn’t much better. Someone is going to say something smart or sassy or both. And then someone else might let go of the steering wheel while she tries to grab sassy pants in the back seat. That same someone might threaten to take away Ipads, basketballs, and trips to Grandmas all in the same breath.
Before we even roll into the church parking lot.
Then starts the stomping and slamming of doors as we get out of the car. Muttering under our breaths and looks that could probably break the stained glass windows in the sanctuary.
When we finally make it to the sanctuary, feeling and probably looking as if we have been through a tornado, there is the usual battle of musical chairs (you can’t sit next to each other boys) and the frequent requests to play with phones, go the bathroom, get water, and to sneak down into the church kitchen for food (they are of course hungry now).
Then comes the frequent removal of the legs from the back of the pew. Frequent requests to sit up. Frequent requests to stand up and sing.
Oh yes, it’s a never ending test of parenting every Sunday morning. It’s not easy. It’s not fun.
I pray my boys are somehow (maybe through osmosis) learning about Jesus as we endure these Sunday morning battles. I hope they are catching glimpses of His grace, glimpses of His goodness, even amidst the chaos and frustration.
And when I do happen to catch the glimpses of Him, from the sweet sound of Eli singing It Is Well With My Soul to how seriously Brady takes communion, I realize that no matter how hard the battle is, no matter how much my hair is turning gray, we are still right where God wants us to be. We might be frazzled. We might be harried. But we are together.
We are worshiping our Savior.
We are fighting the good fight.
One Sunday morning at a time.