Sunday morning. Cinnamon toast for the kids, a stand-up breakfast for me as I gather papers, put on make up, try to keep my cool while my husband sleeps in to the very. last. minute. He works hard every other day; I can give him this. I’m singing with the worship team this morning, so we are leaving for church an hour early. The girls bicker in the bathroom, Wes’s hair is thankfully short enough that it doesn’t really need a comb.
I run upstairs for the umpteenth time to choose my shoes, swish back down. Sunlight glitters through water-specked kitchen windows, and Wes’s shirt is buttoned wrong. I stop, kneel, button. Straighten his collar and tell him our plans for a Sunday drive after church. A phrase pops out, reminds us of a song from his favourite Bible songs CD. And time stops. The rush for Sunday prettiness is forgotten as I hold his hands and we sing. We speed up the words, laughing into each other’s eyes, and then we jump. Up and down and around in a circle, faster and faster, while Wade looks on, cracks a grin.
We dance, and worship sparkles though blotchy windows.