Sunday

Morning Drive
We drive to church past the traditional Indonesian market.
A black cloud of flies hovers above the butcher block.
A live chicken struts and pecks at the ground under her hanging sisters,
pink, plucked and ready for sale.
Goats in bamboo pens bleat.
There is a truck with mangoes stacked higher than the cab
I wonder if they will spill over the side and roll down the street like marbles.
A woman wearing bright red flip flops
carries a plastic bag of newly purchased onions, garlic, and greens.

Primary Program
Four of my children are on the stand at church.
Tman looks at the congregation and speaks clearly - a huge accomplishment for him!
He peeks over the piano at me when he sits down,
I give him a thumbs up.
Meya recites most of her talk from memory.
I am not surprised - she's just that kind of girl.
Leasie talks about Jesus. And when she says she has felt His love, I know it's true.
It is Madi's eighth primary program,
and her last.
She sits with the other eleven-year-olds and narrates the program.
I look for traces of childhood still lingering on her face.
But she is more youth than child now.
She bears her testimony and teaches me.
Tears - happy tears because of the girl she has become,
and sad tears because of time's ferocious speed.

Afternoon Storm
CJ and I snuggle in my bed for an afternoon nap.
Her bare toes wiggle, tickling my knees.
We wake to darkened windows and the rumble of thunder.
I wander downstairs to find the children laughing and snuggling with Dad.
We play board games to the accompaniment of pattering rain.
Tman has a glorious win.
Leasie and I work in the kitchen together.
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.
We blow the fuse five times trying to use the electric griddle.
We opt for the stove top.
Warm gingerbread with whipped cream.

We stay together as the stormy evening blurs into night.
Our laughter drowns out the sound of the rain.

I have lived many Sundays.
This one...
this one was one of my favorites.