Sunday Faith, Fun, and Cleanup Duty
When I was little, Sundays had a rhythm all their own. The morning always started with Sunday School—Bible stories, crafts, and songs sung a little too loudly by kids who had way too much energy. But first came the ritual of getting dressed in our Sunday best. Dresses, shoes that felt a little more special than the everyday pair—it was all part of the package.
After church came the real highlight: coffee and donuts with family friends. Most Sundays it was at their house, where the adults lingered over mugs and conversation while we kids played. But every once in a while, the gathering was at our house.
At first, I loved it. We headed straight for the basement—my basement—and turned it into a wonderland of board games, dolls, Legos, and general chaos. It felt like a kid’s paradise… until everyone went home. Then I’d be left standing in the middle of the wreckage, stuck with the cleanup while the fun evaporated upstairs.
After a few Sundays like that, I wised up. The next time, instead of diving into the fun, I parked myself on the basement stairs and assumed the role of toy police. “Are you done with that? Then put it away!” No new game until the last one was back on the shelf. Not surprisingly, my friends didn’t think Sundays at my house were quite as magical after that.
By the time I was in third grade and going through confirmation, Sundays came with a different kind of responsibility. If my friend and I had a Saturday night sleepover, we’d spend part of the evening quizzing each other on Luther’s Small Catechism—the 3rd-grade version of cramming for finals. Even between giggles and whispered secrets, we made time to memorize commandments and explanations.
Every so often, Sunday afternoons turned into something extra. My friend and I would head off to the movies or go roller skating. It wasn’t a weekly thing—more of a bonus round, a treat layered on top of the usual Sunday routine.
Years later, when my family moved back to Beaver Dam, Sundays took on that familiar rhythm again. We started going back to my home church, and I enrolled my kids in Sunday School. I loved the fact that my children were walking into the same church I had grown up in, learning their own Bible stories, and making their own Sunday memories.
And the church itself? It still smells exactly the same as it did when I was a kid—a strange comfort in its own way. A mix of mothballs, old hymnals, percolated coffee, and something I can never quite put my finger on.
Sundays taught me faith, friendship… and that nothing ruins playtime faster than a self-appointed cleanup cop.
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