"Sundays are Hard."

We have a saying in our household. "Sunday's are hard!" They're hard because I have to get up extra early and am usually trying to read through (or finish) a sermon while I'm eating breakfast. Then I have to get the kids fed and dressed, and we head to church to make much of our day there. Once we get to church, things usually even out for us; the kids go to nursery or Sunday school or they spend some time with some of their special adult friends at church who are like our Sunday angels.

But for whatever reason, yesterday was particularly hard. I didn't have anything good for MM to wear to church, and so I had to lay out an outfit that she has never liked. We got into a huge argument about it, and she ended the argument by shouting, "I look ridiculous!" and storming off. Just before we left, she asked if she could take her favorite stuffed toy, "Kitty", to church with her. I told her no because she had taken it last week and almost forgotten it, and it had been a huge ordeal, and I just didn't feel like I could deal with it on this particular Sunday. Of course, that started another round of hystrionics, but I finally got everyone into the car and headed to church, feeling a little ragged around the edges.

I had managed to regain my composure and was mostly done with the 8:00 service. We had reached the part where I was giving communion out to everyone, and this is always one of my favorite times in the service. It is a thin place for me, when I get to look into the faces of these people who are entrusted to my care and share with them in this deep mystery. As I was making my way around the altar rail, I reached my children, who had come up for communion with one of their adult friends. And I received quite a shock! MM had plopped her "Kitty" (that was supposed to be left at home) right up on the altar rail next to her and was gesturing to it most proudly. I was livid! But I gave her and the rest of the people communion and finished the service.

In between services, we had quite a talk (witnessed, in part, by the choir), and her father and I doled out her punishement after we all got home from church.

But I've been thinking alot about the plight of preachers kids lately, and this instance brought it even more to my awareness.

At my Uncle Mike's funeral last week, I was struck when his pastor told the gathered congregation how Mike, a pastor's kid, had always been very deliberate in his care for his pastor and most especially his pastor's family. He spoke about how it had been a part of Mike's ministry because he knew what it was like to be a pastor's kid, and how his family had not always been very well taken care of.

So today, I give thanks for those people like my Uncle Mike, who minister to my children-making sure they get to communion, getting them donuts, dinner, something to drink, a snack after church when they're waiting on mom, giving them someone to sit with, looking out for them and making sure they don't get into trouble, and just taking care of these little orphans of the church. It is a gift to me to know that they are taken care of when I am busy taking care of others.