Sunday evening, and I am finally ready for the weekend to begin.  To begin again, that is.  How is it that we are able to completely press speed dial when it comes to Friday through Sunday, but the rest of the week is like waiting on hold with elevator music playing in the background?

Sunday morning is almost a distant memory.  Almost.  I can still feel the tension in my stomach in trying to get to church on time without losing my sanity.  I believe I lost it right about 11:00 a.m. when I walked in the front door, met the pastor on the way to the piano, where I was about to play a musical prelude, and he confirmed with me that it was my turn to lead worship this Sunday.

Apparently he sent me a memo via Facebook messaging.  I am not always the best at reading those.  My bad.

I don’t know about you church-goers out there, with whom I might share this problem, but I am perpetually late for church on Sunday.  It matters not what time I get up nor how much I have piled on my plate for that day.  I am always late for church.  It is a problem that I am now trying to embrace as a lifestyle.  Not sure if everyone else in my world is on board with this vision yet.  But one can only hope they soon will be.

Not only am I late, but I am usually in a foul mood from having been cranky at everyone in a  five-mile radius who did not happen to like their Sunday clothes, the feel of scratchy nylons, folding their pajamas, putting away their pajamas, or for not liking the shoes and coat I might have selected.  In general, if it can go wrong on Sunday mornings in our household, it usually does.  And right about 9:33 a.m., Sunday morning, to be exact.

So today, the day unravelled in this way.

I wake up before anyone else in the house, as per usual.  I peek in my daughter’s room to find her reading a book, but I scurry past her room to the staircase where I thump downstairs as fast as humanly possible at this early hour.  I rarely try to disguise the fact that I am up.  No one usually gets the hint.

As today is fellowship meal day at church, I am aware that I do need to get my act together, so as to make sure I am reasonably on time.  I have a casserole and dessert to make.  I am silently scolding myself for not having been more organized yesterday in starting preparations.  Another character flaw of mine.

By the time everyone in our family is up, breakfast is being served and dinner is starting to be assembled.  However, about a half an hour prior to church, I officially realize I will not be on time today.  Which is really just like every other Sunday, but I always like to give myself some room to prove  my usual late self wrong.  So, the children are dressed and their hair is done, all the while Mommy is still in her pajamas.

Now, usually, I can pull things together and we are all in the van heading off to church with the knowledge that we are only a few minutes late for church.  But today, my in-laws call and offer to take my husband and kiddos so as to ensure some of our family is on time for Sunday School.  The offer is too sweet to resist.  So, I remain in my overnight apparel as I send them all out the door to Grammie’s waiting van, with the hopes that I will be able to get my act together in the next hour and thus be on time for morning worship.

I do get to church.  Late, but I get there.

After I have parked the van and breezed in the side door, fully dressed with casseroles stacked one on top of the other in a delicate balancing act, all while grabbing the door  with my free arm, my daughter’s Sunday School teacher comes up to me and says, “Little One told me that Mommy was home today in her pajamas.”  Note to self: always remind the children to keep family secrets just that, a secret.  I feign horror at the thought of her spreading this story all around the Sunday School, but secretly I am impressed that she is so observant and detailed in her storytelling.

Just as I am starting to relax, because I am here now after all, I am again informed by a different friend of yet another detail I have overlooked.   Today is my Sunday in the nursery.  That is, the nursery that was just held the hour before, while I was home slouching around in my pajamas.

So, I am feeling knocked down quite a few rungs, and just about that time is when the pastor and I meet near the altar, at the front of the church, while I am heading for the piano.  I could use an answer to prayer right about now, and I am sure in a good position to get one.

It all worked out in the end.  But it sure was a rollercoaster of a ride in the process.

Which leads me to this conclusion: while I agree that Sunday corporate worship is the ideal, there are some days when I wish for a television remote and a good, ole’ T.V. evangelist.  It would certainly be hard to be late for that service, and I think pajamas are encouraged.

Sounds too good to be true.