The Monday After

 Every Sunday morning for the past few months, I say to myself, "Do I really want to go to church today?"  Usually the answer is no.  Or somewhere in-between.  I'm in-between on a lot of things these days.  If Kris is working graveyards, I can almost always talk myself out of going to church because...well, I have lots of excuses and justifications that are just excuses.  But they work for me (especially since its 1 o'clock church, and that is a killer in and of itself).  Even if I don't want to go, I will usually buck up and go anyway.  I'm screwed from the moment I make that decision because I'm going with this, "Well, I don't want to go but I'm going to suck it up and go anyway" attitude.  Nothing is going to be good with that kind of attitude.

You can imagine that by the time Sunday night rolls around, my attitude has not improved.  In fact, its significantly worse.  When its time to eat dinner, I will have at least 1, but mostly likely 2, crying kids.  They waited all morning to go to church, nobody got a good nap or quiet time, the girls will have played like mad in Nursery (especially since they don't get out much to begin with), and now they are tired and grumpy and hungry (only they don't know they're hungry because they are SO tired).  When dinner is over, all I can think is, "I knew I shouldn't have gone to church."
Then by the time I am ready for bed, especially if Kris is home that night, I will sit and go through this (seriously, I'm pretty sure I do this every Sunday): "I don't know why I go to church, my kids get nothing out of it," "I don't know why I go to church, I don't get anything out of it,"  "I don't know why I go to church, nobody even talks to me," "If I quit going to church, nobody would even notice,"  "I don't think I'll go to church next Sunday,"  "I am a horrible parent."

That would probably be more funny if I was joking, but I'm totally not.  Church. Is. Hard.  Yesterday Kris taught in Elder's Quorum from the George Albert Smith manual.  The lesson was on the Sabbath.  There was a line in the lesson about how God didn't make the Sabbath to be a burden, he made it to bring joy and blah blah blah.  Church is a burden for me.  It just is.  Blame it on the season of life that I'm in, blame it on my bad attitude, blame it on 1 o'clock church, but for whatever reason, right now...its a freakin' burden.  And I don't know how to change that.  I don't know how to change my attitude, because its still hard.  Church feels SO ridiculous, no matter what kind of attitude I have.  It's just hard.

I guess I do it for the habit.  Its Sunday, we go to church.  Annie is loud and completely irreverent during Sacrament Meeting, Emily is a wreck because she hasn't napped, and Jack is wiggly and fussy...but its Sunday and we're going to church, dangit.  Someday it won't be this hard (I know its a long way off and more that I "hope" it won't be this hard), and hopefully by then my kids will know that its what we do on Sunday.  And hopefully they won't think, "It's Sunday, let's go to church so Mom can get mad."


IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER

I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the "good" living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather rambling about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted
in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television, and more
while watching life.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick, instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment, realizing that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."
There would have been more "I love you's" and more "I'm sorry's"
. . . but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute . . .
look at it and really see it . . . and never give it back. ― Erma Bombeck