Lord, it’s hard for me, as you know, to sleep on Sunday mornings. Almost as soon as I open my eyes, my mind goes to work – the adult ed class I will teach, the sermon I’ve prepared, the people I am hoping to see.
So, I sit at my desk – half-awake, in the early light – and I contemplate the day, this day, the day you have made. (I’m not quite ready to rejoice and be glad in it, though that will come.)
I like the sermon I’ve prepared. It’s got a couple of good laugh lines and also what my father-in-law used to call “meat-and-potatoes.”
It’s not unusual for me to feel good about the sermon at this point in the morning. What happens is that I probably won’t like it so much in a few hours, but then we’ve been all through that, haven’t we, Lord?
I promise to give it my best, and then I’ll try not to spend the rest of the day criticizing it and thinking of all the ways it could have been better.
As for the people, I’m grateful for them.
I’m amazed, frankly, that any of them will show up. It’s such a gloomy, rainy, chilly day that I wonder if I would take a shower, get dressed, and go to church, if I didn’t have to be there. I’d be tempted to tell the preacher later in the week how I can contemplate you just by looking out of my window with a cup of coffee in my hand, which is pretty much what I’m doing right now.
But that’s just the thing: not many of them do that – stay home, I mean. The church, I know from experience, will be mostly full. And there will be lots of children too, a couple hundred of them, thinking that it’s the most natural thing in the world to go to church on Sunday morning. Little do they know.
I am grateful for this day, Lord, for this gift you have given me to do what I love to do. May it be a good day – for you and for us.
In Jesus’ name, I pray.