I realized this afternoon that tomorrow is Sunday. Sitting in the back seat of the car, I watched the city skyline slide past on the other side of the tinted window, the lake rolling gently over the beach, on my left. I sat in that red SUV, brother and mother in the front seat, three empty car seats with me in the back, and Sunday occurred to me.
I didn’t have to think about it long. Soon, we stopped at Starbucks and we talked about school and summer and travel and I called for a change in radio station seventeen times. I was distracted. And then we arrived downtown and the mother pulled over behind a bus and the brother and I hopped out, onto the curb, into the movie theater. Bought tickets, ran to Jimmy John’s, scuttled back to that huge theater complex, found seats, found friends, enjoyed the film.
And then there were four of us and we walked back to school, snaking past the Saturday night rumble of restaurants, bars, clubs. We passed hotels, frozen yogurt shops, the brother dragged us into 7-11 so he could buy a sweet tea, which to our amusement, was sold to him in a paper bag. Skipping through crosswalks because the countdown to red is ticking fast and the light’s turning soon, we wished the brother good night at the Red Line and the three of us continued back to school.
There was a stop to see Mar at work, two stories up, across the plaza from my room, where we ate Goldfish and I listened intently to a conversation about basketball, of which I understood not a word.
But now I’m back on the floor, in my cozy cloths. It’s quiet. I’m thinking about Sunday.
I don’t like to dread Sunday. Don’t like that the weekend sinks heavy with a sigh when I suddenly look up and realize that it’s Sunday soon. Maybe it’s not in the Bible, but it might as well be: Sunday is a day of rejoicing. A day of extra-special God time. A day to meet with individuals of all walks of life and be together, praise Him together, in the unity that only church brings.
I’ve been running from Sundays, these past months, because people go to church on Sundays, of course, and I’m just not sure where to go.
It sounds simple. Just find a church. Go out, ride the bus, take the train, walk, and go to church. There are hundreds of them in this city, or at least, it feels like there are.
So I go. I walked to Moody Church, wet snow slushing into the holes in my boots, the sun shining cold and bright in the February afternoon. Later, I rode the bus and then the train, northwest. The Jen and I went together, dresses, toting Bibles, on an adventure, almost. The next week, we went to another church, again a train and a bus, then a short walk across a park, to a building full of singing, preaching; full of people.
Then we came back to campus, because that’s where home is, that’s where comfortable, safe, feels.
Maybe it shouldn’t be like that. Maybe church should be the highlight of the week. A haven of safe people, familiar faces, a beacon of encouragement and refreshment after a long week. Maybe, probably. I wish it was like that, really. But it’s not, and I don’t know what to do.