Finding Joy. Even on Sundays.

Sometimes, Sundays are really hard.

For as long as I have had children, I've been getting them ready for church alone. That's ten years, people... ten years of Josh heading off to early meetings (Truly, I send him willingly... blessings come from service. I know this. I love this. But sometimes one must complain to feel better. So, best get on with it.), ten years of me wrangling little bodies into ties and belts and dresses and shoes with buckles. I admit, it is getting a little easier, now that three of the five are capable of getting at least half way dressed on their own. I need only step in to fix ties and help with hair and button difficult top buttons. But see, getting them READY for church isn't actually the hardest part. Because once they're dressed, we have to actually go to church.

Where we sit.

For 70 minutes.

For the past three years, I've not only taken the kids to church alone, but because of my husband's responsibilities that require him to sit on the stand, I sit with them alone too. It's all well and good. Sometimes one of the boys sits with Josh. And sometimes friends and generous souls sit with me to help. And sometimes the kids behave and we actually make it through a meeting without any major meltdowns. But that doesn't mean it doesn't stretch my nerves and try my patience and make me want to poke my eyes out with one of the plastic forks in the church kitchen closet.

After church, it's always lovely to come home to a house suffering from post-Sunday morning stress disorder - where dirty breakfast dishes and discarded pajamas and rolled up diapers mingle with every random item in the house that I swear was actually put away before we left for church but somehow manages to be tossed about the living room now that we are home. I don't know how it happens, but nothing seems to mess my house up more than Sunday mornings. Except maybe Sunday afternoons.

Because, you know, on a Sunday afternoon, I might actually sit down for a minute or two. And when Mothers sit, messes are made. Or at least, sometimes it seems that way.

And so it is on a Sunday.

This afternoon, I found myself faced with a moment where I had to decide what I was going to make of my Sunday. My kitchen was a mess; dishes piled high in the sink, counter tops covered with more dishes and empty cereal boxes and a magazine cemented to the granite by some sticky substance. Probably maple syrup. I thought about crying. But then, a thought. A gentle bidding not to cry or yell or complain, but to simply let it go.

Let it go?

I tried to look at my kitchen with different eyes. The mess was still there, but it was a mess with purpose - a mess that came from cookies that Lucy and I made together, from a meal that my family enjoyed together. It was a joyful mess. Could I focus on the joy, and not the mess?

I can. I did. And it felt fabulous.

The mess is still there, and will be there still tomorrow morning. I imagine I'll grumble a bit before I clean it up, but it won't matter because the joy will have already made my Sunday. It felt good to let it go. See, that's why I do what I do. The going to church with five kids and the sitting through church with five kids and the coming home from church to messes made before church and the making of even more messes after church... It's because of the joy.

Because family is joyful. And faith is joyful. Sometimes, even messes are joyful. But oh, how hard it can be to see it. Sometimes I can't see unless I pray mightily for God to help me, to help me shake off the blinders of self absorption and see the goodness and the grace and the sweetness of His mercy in every single aspect of my life.

Even in the chaos of Sundays.

Even in messes.

In everything.

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