Going to Church Come Hell or High Water

One Sunday, as I tossed out three unused pledge envelopes before I got to the one with the current date, I was confronted with the fact that it had been four weeks since we’d been to church.

There had been reasons for our absences; in fact there were plenty of good excuses, but if I made them every week, missing church would be the rule rather than the exception.

I had reminded the boys the night before that it was “Church Day” tomorrow.

“NO MOMmmeeeeee!” my oldest whined. “I don’t wanna go!”

“Yeah, it’s bow-wing!” his brother underscored.

The boys were particularly wild and rowdy that Sunday morning, yet I couldn’t send them outside because it was raining. I stuck to my guns, though.

“Which of your church shirts do you want to wear today, boys?” I held up an assortment of clothes.

Fortunately, my youngest, who had awakened at 5:00 a.m., decided he needed a morning nap, so I popped in a Bible Man video for the big boys and seized the opportunity for a quick shower.

“Boys, are you dressed?” I called.

I heard giggling and rustling. Pajamas, pillows, and throws were flying as I walked through the living room and into the kitchen to assemble all the various and sundry items we’d need for a visit to church – diaper bag, quiet entertainment (books and toys that don’t click, beep, or make truck noises), and snacks.

“Did you brush, boys, or are you going with pirate teeth today?”

I let my youngest sleep longer than I should have; I don’t like breaking the “never wake a sleeping baby” rule. He clung to me as I rallied his reluctant brothers.

I herded them out the door, tossing their shoes out on the porch after them, and realized that the youngest had gone foo-foo. The break in the action while I changed his diaper triggered the big boys to resume bouncing off the walls and each other.

“Boys, just go wait outside! Please!”

I realized my youngest needed a new outfit, too, so I shoved some clothes into the diaper bag. I hauled him and all the bags out to the car, leaving his poopy clothes in a heap in the floor, a relative speck compared to the debris in the rest of the downstairs.

“No! No! No! No puddles, boys!”

During our journey, the rain became torrential, which necessitated my focusing on driving rather than the big boys’ thrashing in the wayback of the car. By the time we got to church, one of them was sniffling and holding his white shirt up to his bloody nose. His brother was shouting, “SORRYSORRYSORRY! SOR-REE!!” in that obnoxious way that little boys have of being remorseful.

Umbrella-less, we hustled through the rain and into the church fellowship hall. The religious education director stopped in her tracks when she saw us. “I remember those days!” She also has three children, older than mine, so I was not embarrassed. As we stood there – late, bloody, soaked, naked, and disheveled – I was just grateful we made it – through hell and high water.