Every Sunday Morning

Waking up to the sound of an alarm clock is never pleasant. Waking up two hours before the alarm was set to the exasperating voice of a mother is fifty times worse.

“Goooooood morning! Let’s go! Up, and at ‘em!” she trumpets at seven thirty am, after crashing open the bedroom door. I jolt upward out of a dead sleep thinking the British are coming, cannons and all. Then, I see her and flop back down on the mattress, thoroughly annoyed. She repeats her battle cry, but it falls on numbed ears. Somehow, my sister, lying on the bunk below me, remains unconscious through the entire occurrence. She releases a slumberous sigh and rolls to the other side of the mattress. Jealousy pervades my soul.

Meanwhile, mother-dearest assumes she has properly aroused us and continues on her way, making sure to leave the door wide open. At this point I am particularly vexed; thus, I defiantly get out of bed, close the door, and flop back under the covers (not that this does me any good, for I can never get back to sleep after such a rude awakening). My goal is merely to deny her any satisfaction whatsoever.

I am fully aware of my mother's motive: Sunday school at 9:30 am. I absolutely refuse to go to Sunday school. Now, I don’t mind church that much, granted it is a bit redundant. I mean, it doesn’t take an astrophysicist to come up with the Ten Commandments, let alone God. I think “Bible” was a mistranslation of the phrase “Life for Dummies.” Anyway, I can handle the idiot’s guide to living, but Sunday school is like “Life for the Ignorant Neanderthal.” We watch cheesy movies about unbelievable characters bettering stereotypically sinful situations, eat donut holes, and color pictures. I’m sorry, but even Jesus wouldn’t lose two hours of sleep for Sunday school.

Unfortunately, Mumsy doesn’t share my opinion. I, however, know how to win this fight. I remain in bed until nine-fifteen. Soon after, she barges back into my room, gives me the hairy eyeball, and lets me know she’s incredibly disappointed that I did not wake up on time (as if a guilt trip is going to get me ready in five minutes). I shrug, yawn, and half-heartedly apologize. "You MUST be ready for church!" she bellows, and exits in a flourish of authoritarian agitation.

I hop in the shower. My sister has finally liberated herself from her state of repose, and traveled downstairs to eat breakfast. Apparently, one of my brothers resisted my mother as well and is eating cereal with my sister. There is strength in numbers... and safety. Pity flows through my mind as I think of my youngest brother who couldn't fight my mother's dictatorial force. He'll learn soon. It doesn't take long to build up resistance. We all finish our morning routines, hop in my car, and make our way to the worship service.

We walk into the church and find seats amongst the other members of the congregation: little girls with bows on their shoes and in their hair and on their purses and on their skirts, middle-aged couples juggling babies, diaper bags, and bibles all at once, old ladies with flower-print dresses, thick nylon stockings, and wrinkly necks, and elderly men donning ties to match their wives' dresses. Our church is largely populated by the elderly. I think people become more religious when they know they’re about to die. They don’t realize that they’ve been dying since the day they were conceived by their parents' fornication.

The organ pipes up and the candles are ablaze with holy light. Our little pastor takes the stage and reads scripture while incessantly gesturing to the heavens. I think he does this because it makes him feel taller. After amusing myself with this thought for a while, I begin coloring the program with the pencil I stole from the attendance pad. Not much better than Sunday school, I venture, but at least in Sunday school we get crayons. The congregation reads a prayer printed in the bulletin. This droning chant distinctly reminds me of a scene from "Children of the Corn." I don’t think anyone is actually thinking about the words on the page. I could probably pass out a prayer saying, “Praise God and the eggs that fly from his mauve station-wagon!” and people would still read it without flinching.

Now, our beloved pastor emphatically announces that today is… Commitment Sunday! On this special day, we fill out a blue card that sets the amount of money we pledge to give to the church in the following year. It's almost like a telethon with a guilt trip. Praise the Lord, hallelujah!
"Now this is real worship," I tell myself, and then continue to shade in the grape leaves on the front of my bulletin. After a few more scripture readings, our lively pastor preaches to us about the necessity of giving money to the church, of attending all the services, of coming to bible studies at least twice a week, and so on. Ushers pass around offering plates, and the bleating church members sanctimoniously donate green bills with largish numbers on them to help pay for our ostentatious facility. Does God really find eight golden chandeliers hanging from a cathedral-like ceiling necessary decor?
The last leaf on my program is complete, so I must now resort to my other past time: purging my hair of split ends. Next thing I know, two aged ladies from the senior choir are singing a duet. Their voices warble (the result of a dilapidated vibrato), and I feel like I’m floating in an underwater world. They finish, we sing a final hymn, and I’m home free. That is, ironically, until I get home. Upon arrival, I'll have to complete unnecessary tasks bestowed upon me, like making up the bed I neglect every Sunday morning.