Ready for Church?

“Ready for church?”

It’s a silly question, really, and to be honest, I’m not sure why I asked. I gaze upon my two small daughters as they shove pancakes into their mouths, the stringy syrup striping their pajamas. Cheeks puffed with pastries, they shake their heads.

I run through the mental checklist: Clean the table. Clean the kids. Dress the kids. Do their hair. Get myself ready. Get out the door.

I take a quick glance at the clock and do the math. Ten minutes. We have to accomplish all of that in ten minutes.

Anxiety stabs me in the gut. “Time to get dressed! It’s urgent! Go, go, go!”

They scurry from the table, fiddling with everything they can on the way to their rooms. Even from a distance, I see how their hands stick to whatever they touch, and hear the pop as they pry their syrupy fingers from their plate. And their toys. And the walls.

I cringe.

Wipe down the whole house, I mentally add to the to-do list.

My husband takes the baby, and I hurry to the bedroom to throw on my Sunday best. After slapping some makeup on my face, I scramble back to my daughters’ room to find them swinging from their bunk beds. Naked.

“Why aren’t you dressed?!”

They point to the closet where their dresses hang. “We couldn’t reach.”

I glance down at my watch. Two minutes. With a little luck and a lot of Jesus, we could do this.

The girls choose their dresses and I stuff them in, zip them up, then shoo them out the door and into the van. In those two minutes, my husband has also managed—by some miracle of his own—to dress himself, dress the baby, fill a bag with Cheerios, and meet us in the garage.

Quickly, we throw the girls into their carseats and fasten the buckles. Then we’re off. As we pull out of the driveway, my husband and I sigh deeply. Just like we do every Sunday.

At church, we pile into our normal seats in the front row. We enjoy the clear view. The few distractions. The public humiliation.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” says my four-year-old.

“What? You just ate breakfast.”

“But I’m still hungry. Can I have a snack?”

I grab the bulging bag of Cheerios—the one my husband filled before we left home—and hand it to her.

Then we’re instructed to greet our neighbors. Which we do.

Then comes the music. Which we sing.

Then an hour of stillness. Which we can’t do to save our souls.

Almost immediately, my daughter drops the snack bag, sending 8,000 tiny Os sprawled all over the floor. My two-year-old, who’s already down there crawling under the pews, picks them up and shovels them into her mouth. I bend over to help and my infant son cries out for milk. I sit back up, swing my nursing cover over my head, and expose myself beneath it so he can eat.

We’ve already caused a scene. People are looking. I can feel their gazes smothering the back of my neck. I have no idea what the priest is saying. All I know is that I’m sweating. And if my baby yanks the blanket (like he’s been known to do), the entire congregation will get to see more than just Jesus’s body today.

My insides squirm more than my active toddlers. “Do you SEE what I go through to bring my kids to Mass?” I silently whine to God. “Do you see everything I’m doing to be here??”

“Really?” The word—definitely not my own—flashes through my mind, saturated with sarcasm and jest. “I went through some stuff to be here, too…”

Screen Shot 2018-03-28 at 1.27.33 PMIn one swift, sobering moment, Jesus Himself reminded me that my biggest inconveniences are merely that—inconveniences. Nothing painful (save for the few right hooks to the nose or cheek when my husband and I pass around small children.) But what I go through—these hardships I can hardly bear—are nothing compared to the absolute agony and misery that Jesus willingly endured. All so He could be here and live up to who He truly is.

Immanuel. God with us.

What about you?

What cross of yours makes it difficult to get to church? And will you choose to bear it to meet Him there?

11 Comments on “Ready for Church?”


    I remember scenes just like this all through my life. As a little girl waiting with my sister to get our hair combed. And our Dad checking fingernails on all four of us. Then with my own four. You really hit the nail on the head! What a blessing our children are and what a joy and blessing to be free to worship. Thank you Jesus!

    I love your articles.

    Karen Stasko

    Sent from my iPad


    Liked by 1 person

  2. I just want you to know that when I’m looking at your family in Mass, it’s because I love the witness to your vocation that I see each Sunday. ❤ You’re rocking it, I promise. Loved this post.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Kelsey, you and your family bring smiles to our faces at each Mass. We are inspired by your faithfulness and perseverence, and the way you sing and worship in the midst of all that is going on. Many of us are remembering those years that we, too, “went through” and wish we could have the chance for a “do-over”. Thank you for sharing your life and thoughts with us. Love you, sister in the Lord!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. This is so funny! Well, it’s always hilarious when it’s not your child isn’t it 🙂 Sunday morning escapades can make up many I book I feel. Have you watched Mom’s Night Out yet? You will sympathise with the church scene. We’re not allowed to eat in our main auditorium anymore, but a visiting preacher once emptied out 12 boxes of Cheerios onto the floor to make some point (can’t remember, despite the visuals). I love the bit at the end where you come in with, “Do you see what I went through?” Very powerful. Thanks for another wonderful read.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Good perspective! And you’re so right—when it’s not my own child, I think, “Man, I really want to get to know that family. They totally get me.”

    When it’s my kids, all I can think is, “NOOOOOOOOO!”

    Liked by 1 person

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