Sundays are for the homesick
For those gruelling runs alone
For the heart pounding in an earthly body
As the spirit longs for creation renewed
Sundays are for morning worship
Chorused praises in one language
And midnight prayers whispered in another
Sunday mornings are the echoes of a congregation
Weeping from another lifetime ago
In a church you were never meant to be,
Or stay or belong or grow,
Sunday mornings are for finding God to be foreign here
And wondering if He hears your prayers all the same,
Sunday dinners are for looking at siblings eating lunch
And wondering, are they thinking of me across the oceans and the cities?
Sundays are for those same sacraments,
Living rituals in new rooms with the same white walls
Sunday afternoons are for trying to call home and remembering it’s not there, and the connection is bad, and it cuts in and out, like the prayers.
Sundays are for curling up in the window and waiting for the Sunday slowness to pass, the Sunday lostness, the magnum silentium,
Waiting to find the world moving again in the Monday chaos
Sundays are for silent worship in the hills, kettle boiled, coffee made at home,
looking around for friends in the foyer,
Sundays are for when our bodies yearn most for eternity, for the clarity of continuous glory.
Sundays are for the homesick, the multitude of lost and broken and borrowed and bruised and hopeful and waiting.
Count me amongst that weekly number.