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Sunday Morning Chaos

Sunday Morning Chaos

As the alarm clock cracks the silence of the morning’s rest, I reluctantly sling the cool quilt off my person to shock myself awake. It’s Sunday morning once again. The children are running around the house in their pajamas—or lack thereof—ignoring my every command.

The sweet drag of coffee from my favorite breakfast chalice will hopefully excavate the strength to wrestle my children into their Sunday’s best found on our last escapade to Kohl’s. That adventure of playing peek-a-boo under the dressing room doors still lingers as I begin to cut the tags off with extreme precision using my Gerber pocketknife.

Once the children are dressed, the next task is finding socks that match or at least are clean. Rushing to the car, the awkwardness of their steps reveal the shoes are on the wrong feet. How does this even happen? The car seats render treasures of unrecognizable, half chewed victuals. The belts click, and I sigh in relief. Finally, we’re on our way.

Removing the Mickey Mouse action figure from the front seat, it occurs to me, I still have thirty minutes to make the forty-five-minute drive. While fighting the lost seat buckle in the dark ravine between the seat and center console, I realize my Bible and the potluck casserole are safely waiting on the kitchen counter. I sternly request my son remain in his car seat as I dash to the door. I begin shaking the handle in despair because the house key dwells on the same ring as the key running the car. My shuttle run between the car and the house leaves me sucking down the remainder of the coffee in my morning travel goblet.

Driving with the fury of Dale Earnhardt, I hit a pothole causing the pristine lip liner my wife is applying to mark half her face, giving way to a conversation on how well a certain someone navigates the perils of government funded roadways.

Arriving at church, we make our way to our respective seating. The pastor walks briskly toward me, smiling. How is this dude always so happy? He urges me to meet the young visitor he brought. I concede and go on to encounter a young man who is recovering from a past he would rather not talk about. As we make small talk, it’s certain my children are taking the pulpit by storm and picking on the young adults. The conversation then hinges all at once on the small comment made about how my two-year-old and five-year-old keep me hopping. It’s then that the young man says, “Sounds like good problems to have.” Ouch.

I suddenly realize all the hustling and the wrestling and even the discipline given to my children are wonderful blessings from God. It dawns on me like the kissing rays of the sun that my opportunity as a parent is fleeting. Even the most difficult times are an epoch of grand design.

That night leads us to a greater enjoyment of our family worship as my little ones giggle at my amateur rendition of Daniel and the lion’s den. I stretch a smile as they sing “Jesus Loves Me,” noticing a little drop of moisture from my eyes during their innocent prayer asking for protection for their mama, teddy bear, and dog. My heart swells, making the hugs just a tad tighter at bed time. At their bedroom door, I look back at them resting so peacefully, thinking, “Who needs pajamas anyway?”

By: Coty Black

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  1. What a blessing children are from the Lord. Thanks for this post.

  2. I think all parents can relate to this kind of morning! Thanks for sharing!!!

  3. Turn around and she’s two,
    Turn around and she’s four,
    Turn around and she’s a young
    girl going out of the door!
    -from a 1950s song

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