Sunday is

“yet I call this to mind, and therefore I have hope.” Lamentations 3

Sunday is church. Sunday is Church. it is intentional conversations and warm hellos, despite the snow on the ground. it is “it’s my first Sunday here, can you show me where to go?”

it’s the Lord chiseling away at the way that I daily live to self. it is the work He is doing with my mind & my wallet. it is in the whispers, the ones where He forces me to wonder how deeply I really do believe in Him. it is in the car rides by myself, no music and more than enough time to think think think of who exactly I call God.

Sunday is a little puffy eyes in the morning and having a distaste for this season. oh, but it is really remembering that the Lord is still good, today and yesterday and in all my tomorrows. Sunday is remembering that promise.

Sunday is flowers on the table, music in my ears. it is “me, too” because I didn’t know that you grew up that way as well.

it is being surrounded by such a majestic, beautiful symphony – a great cloud of witnesses. it is realizing that we are all here together because we have all seen the Lord at work and we gather because, yes, the Lord has fulfilled promises over and over and over to each of us. and yes, He is worth it and we gather to agree and nod and praise the Lord. it is found in the sound of those voices raised high like a banner, “HALLELUJAH.” surely it is found in that sound.

Sunday is conversations on the couch and sweetness for the heart. it is toasted sandwiches and bowls of soup. it is handlettering and corduroy pants.

Sunday is warm jackets on cold, melting-snow days. sweet tea at night. Sunday is handwritten cards – ones written for your heart just as much as for the receiver’s. friend, this too shall pass.

Sunday is white, fluffy comforters, the kind that swallow you when you snuggle deep. Sunday is the smell of coffee, mixed with wake-me-up. Sunday is 1 Corinthians 6 and remembering that God paid full price for me, even though I don’t see myself that way.

Sunday is hospitable. it calls me Home like a beloved child. it begs me to leave yesterday in the yesterday and to trust in the promise of a new day, in the promise of new mercies. yes, it is promise. it is hope fulfilled and grace poured poured poured over my head of clouds.

Sunday is pen scratching because the words are flying and I cannot get them out fast enough. yes, Sunday is in words. it is in remembering the way I can add letter to letter and create a melody worth singing. it is in the words plus the words and paragraph after paragraph of remembering.

Sunday is here. oh, I’m thankful that it is here. that it is this day. that it is Home and words.


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