Sunday mornings

Paul wrote, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want" (Philippians 4:12). Paul went through a lot of suffering, and I think it was in those fires that he learned this lesson. God is the never-changing rock, our source for all peace and all comfort.

I had the privilege of working as a preschool minister at a large church for several years. I would get up early on Sunday mornings and leave the house at 7:15 with my oldest daughter, sometimes the middle one too. She would take the car to Panera for some breakfast after dropping me off at church, and then she would minister to a group of elementary girls and attend youth group. Meanwhile, I would print off the schedule of volunteers that morning, over 80 of them, making notes based on emails and text messages received over night or that morning. I would unlock certain doors, so my early volunteers could get the area ready for that day's ministry. The drama team would arrive and begin rehearsing, checking sound equipment. I would greet the building supervisor, the pastor starting the welcome center, the people setting up the coffee shop. I would double-check the work my staff had completed during the week and say hello to the ministry leaders as they arrived to supervise the classrooms. I would walk through the halls and pray, greet the early teachers looking over their lessons, the faithful volunteer setting out water pitchers.

My husband would arrive at church in time for the first service, and we would sit together while our kids were either in youth or serving. Then I would slip out early to host the theater for 100 four and five-year-olds and their parents. As the second service started, I would again walk the halls, talking to parents, volunteers, children, handling any issues, greeting other staff members. Because our ministry was so large, there was always a little chaos, things that needed my attention. But every morning, seeing the wide variety of faces and knowing the stories attached to each was such a blessing to me. Every Sunday was an opportunity to minister, over and over again, in the name of Jesus.

Last June I resigned, and it was sort of sudden and unexpected. I thought I would take a break from church, then visit around and get plugged in somewhere. Things haven't progressed quite as I thought they would. But I still love Sundays, even though they are very different now. I get up and have coffee with my husband. I read and goof around a bit, then scramble for church, rousting the teenagers out of bed and fixing their breakfast. We go to worship together, and then come home, talking about what we heard, what we understood, what we struggled with. My Sundays could not be any more different than what they were, and yet I am content--I have somehow learned that secret that Paul spoke of, whether I am enmeshed in obligation or freely and almost anonymously participating in a congregation.

I did not earn this contentment. It came to me through the stuggle of seeking God's peace as I served Him, and obeying His voice no matter what the cost. It is a gift. It is a product of maturity. I am not sure why I have wanted to write about it, except perhaps because contentment seems a bit misunderstood. You can't grasp it, with the fury of someone seeking to fight their way out of captivity. It comes to you as you do the hard work of building your faith. I think that perhaps many of the marks of maturity are not goals, but byproducts of pain and struggle. We all want to get to Christlikeness, but I think sometimes we balk at the path. If you do the work in front of you, whatever mundane thing it is, Christ will come and dwell in you, and someday you may be surprised by the joy of your Sunday mornings.