For me, Sunday mornings are made for lounging. If I’m lucky, I’m able to scrounge up enough ingredients to make pancakes. If not, it’ll be another sad bowl of milk-less Honey Nut Cheerios.
If I’m feeling particularly productive, I’ll catch up with “Castle.” If not, it’s back to bed for a few more hours. I like my Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, my mother doesn’t share the same sentiment.
In an effort to make me find more meaning in my life (apparently Family Feud on Facebook doesn’t count), she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. In exchange for spending precious Sunday morning hours on something other than myself, she offered to pay for my gas. As a college student, I’ll take any handout I can get.
Turns out, those couple of hours wouldn’t be spent cleaning the beach, or any other humanitarian options that would fit on my resume. Instead, I would be driving an hour to Chula Vista for a church service. That’s right, you heard me: Church.
Back in the day — when AOL was the Internet provider of choice — my family went to church. But then soccer practices and public speaking tournaments happened.
Since then, in one of my mother’s vain attempts to drag me back to church, I was lucky enough to witness a mother telling her 6-year-old son that he couldn’t be a Power Ranger for Halloween. Apparently, it was the devil’s holiday and if he celebrated it he would go to Hell. Absurd.
After pulling into the New Hope Church parking lot, once they discovered I was new, they greeted me with pamphlets and brochures. The next person that stopped me thought I looked familiar, and I politely told him that was impossible.
“Oh my gosh, you’re Laureen’s daughter!”
Guilty.
Now I knew why my mother wanted me to drive to the border for church: She was BFFs with the pastor.
Inside, I did a quick once-over in search of a strategic seat. Feeling like the delinquent student who sits in the back row and creeps on Facebook, telling everyone who’ll listen that “Damn, this class is dull,” I chose a seat close to the door for a quick exit. Just in case.
As I looked around, I was astonished at how diverse the attendees were. Young and old, dressed in their Sunday best and destroyed jeans, every possible demographic was represented.
Call me cliché, or even a sellout, but as I sat there listening to Christian rock and how it’s okay to make mistakes, I felt good. I felt refreshed. I felt spiritual. I felt like there was some greater being looking out for me. Dare I say, I even enjoyed it.
Instead of preaching why swearing meant St. Peter wasn’t about to let me in anytime soon, Pastor Russ talked about money. In 45 minutes, he summed up why I’m always strapped for cash, and offered a God-infused lesson on how to fix my bank account.
Driving back to La Jolla, I thought, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.” The life lessons made sacrificing sleep more than worth it. And unlike my attempts at veganism, I think I’ll actually look forward to driving back to New Hope next Sunday. Just don’t tell my mom that she was right (this time).
