Sundays

I walked into the sanctuary today, carrying my diaper bag-slash-purse and my tumbler, almost emptied of coffee. My cream-colored turtleneck sweater warded off the chill; I could see trees frosted with slushy snow out the windows.

I sat and listened to announcements. My mind wandered. I felt grimy, dusty. The film of the week lay caked on my soul.

Then the music started. Men and women wearing pastel colors took their places up front. Children, including my daughter, skipped down the center aisle, waving palm fronds enthusiastically.

Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the LORD!

We sang.

Come thou font of every blessing, teach my heart to sing thy grace.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount I'm fixed upon it, mount of thy redeeming love.

The light of God's holiness pierced the crust around my heart. I could feel it cracking and slipping away. Tears seeped out of my eyes and run in tracks down my cheeks. I could feel ragged sobs shake in my chest.

Clean. Fresh. A new start.

That is why I love Sundays.

Oh to grace, how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be
Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it. Seal it for thy courts above.