The quiet of my room right now is even further softened by the late afternoon October sun pouring through the window. The house is snoozing and so are several of its inhabitants. All is restful and still, and a peaceful hush gently descends upon our home, not unlike the gold and red leaves that drift down ever so silently and settle upon our roof. It is another Sunday afternoon and, quite unlike its morning counterpart, Sunday mornings begin as a sleepy yawn but within minutes they are bustling and spirited and lively and vivacious. The showers are running and running, one right after another, the blow dryers are whirring and my favorite son-in-law has gone out for the coffee.
I am putting Sunday dinner together; the chicken (that in a few hours will appear on our table all golden and fragrant and mouthwatering) is being seasoned and tucked in a baking dish. The potatoes will be cut up and placed in a full pot of water. Assorted vegetables are set out and, usually, a big salad will be tossed and set in the fridge to chill. And the butter—heaven forbid I should forget to set out the butter, now, this early—so that it will be absolutely soft and perfect for buttering the bread that my Tim brings to the table every week. So much happens so quickly on a Sunday morning. A minute ago, everyone was sleeping and I am the only one downstairs—early—preparing lunch.
I turn around and Josh is back with the coffee, telling me some little anecdote or funny happening to start my day with a smile, and my good husband is fully dressed and heading for his office. The girls are upstairs laughing about something or giving their opinions of each other’s outfits or borrowing shoes. John runs up from the basement with his freshly ironed shirt and gives me a quick hug. I can’t tell if he did his hair before he got dressed or if his hair just never moved all night. I don’t know how he does that, but he looks beautiful to me.
I run upstairs to give another look at my Sunday school lesson before I begin to get ready and as I go, I move as stealthily as possible so that our three-year-old Madison will not discover that I am indeed in the vicinity or she will want me to play with her. Out of all her playmates: Beep, Johnny, and Madeline—I am the largest. But I do not have time to play this morning. I secretly slide our bedroom door open and slide it shut. Before I take two steps inside the room, I hear a small, running sound coming to my door. And then, a little, groggy morning voice—whose lips are pressed against the narrow space where the door meets the jamb, “Grammmmmmm?” You are in there? Grammmmmmm? Open the door so I can see you!” I quietly sit at my desk and take out my lesson. I can hear Jennifer trying to reason with her three-year-old daughter in the hallway. She is saying that Gram is busy and I feel a twinge of pain and remorse that I am not going to open the door.
My eyes fall upon the lines I wrote a few days ago. “Diamond Girls.” That’s the name I came up with for the series of lessons I teach to the high school/post-high school girls on Sunday mornings. I called it that because that’s what I think of all of them. These are the years that they’re under pressure—just like diamonds before they ever are discovered. There are decisions to be made and life changing choices and conclusions at which they must arrive. How hard it is to wait, sometimes, on the Lord’s direction, and not just give into the designs of the world. But if they can wait, they will emerge the beautiful, multi-faceted, sparkling gems I know they all are.
“Grammmmmmm?” I can’t resist. I slide open the door to see the beautiful Sunday morning princess who is wearing black patent leather shoes and a magisterial dress. “Are you coming to church?” She looks at me incredulously because I’m not dressed yet. “Yes! Yes!” I tell her, “…but Gram has to get ready now, okay?” I hug her and send her on her way—a way she does not necessarily want to travel, she lets me know—but Josh comes to my rescue and escorts her downstairs.
When I am ready as I’ll ever be, I step out in the hallway. The house smells like hairspray, perfume, and aftershave and a faint scent of coffee. One-by-one I hear the back door shut. “Bye mom! See you over!” We have been blessed for years now to live next to the church and, unless it is really pouring, we all walk over. And when the last one leaves, the oven is cooking the chicken and the potatoes are simmering on the stove. The table has been set and the butter crock has been placed closest to the butter people. The house is still and silent after we’ve all gone and the clock over the fireplace keeps perfect time until we all return. We are off—all of us—to the good business of another Lord’s day, where my good husband will open that Book of books to all of us and we will return home, never quite the same.
