Sunday morning. The sun hadn’t even fully risen when I opened my eyes, already running through the checklist in my mind. Clothes? Laid out the night before. Breakfast? Eggs, toast, and blueberries, all prepped to avoid any meltdowns from empty tummies. Shoes were paired, the diaper bag was packed, and I even remembered to grab something my husband had forgotten when he left early to prepare for service that day. I was winning. For a brief, shining moment, I truly believed we might make it to church on time, with everyone dressed, fed, and maybe, just maybe, avoid the chaos of our typical morning.
We were so close. My toddler had just finished breakfast, and I was wrangling the last shoe onto his squirmy little foot. My middle son was in his car seat, buckled and content. My oldest was secure in his booster, waiting to head out. I should have known. It was too perfect.
Then it hit me. The smell.
That dreaded, unmistakable smell. I froze. “Please, no,” I whispered, already knowing. I picked up my toddler, and yes. A full-blown blowout. Not just the kind you can handle with a few wipes, toss a fresh diaper on, and keep moving. No, this one required a full bath, a new outfit, and about 10 extra hands I didn’t have.
So back in the house we went. Everyone. Shoes off, bags down. My toddler got a quick scrub down while I barked orders like a coach in the final seconds of a championship game. My oldest sighed dramatically, my middle started fussing about having to come back in, and I felt my well-orchestrated morning unravel.
We pulled into the church parking lot 35 minutes late. Part of me wanted to just keep driving. Seriously. I was tired, flustered, and very aware that my shirt now had a mystery stain that wasn’t there earlier. Yet, we parked. We got out. And we went in.
We were so late, the sermon was beginning. My kids walked in louder than I would have liked and my older two had a spat over who would get to sit next to me. Throughout the service, they wiggled, whispered louder than most people talk, and my toddler attempted a dramatic escape down the aisle at least twice. But we were there.
And that, I’ve come to realize, is what matters most.
So to the mom who’s exhausted, who considered just watching the livestream because it would be easier: bring ‘em anyway.
To the mama whose toddler yells “Amen!” during the sermon (even when it’s not quite the time): bring ‘em anyway.
To the one whose attempt to be fully present is constantly thwarted by busy littles who won’t stop moving: bring ‘em anyway.
To the mama whose teenager rolls their eyes and slumps into their chair like they’ve been sentenced because they’re at church: bring ‘em anyway.
To the one who sits in the pew feeling like everyone around her has it all together, while she’s silently struggling just to make it through to the benediction: bring ‘em anyway.
Because mommin’ is hard. But you know what’s harder? Sending them out into the world without a place to anchor their soul. Without knowing what it feels like to sit in a sanctuary, hear familiar songs, and see a community of people trying, failing, and worshiping anyway.
We all have our own beliefs and ways we show up, but this is mine: if I want my children to grow up knowing how to find peace when life gets loud, they’ve got to learn what peace feels like now, even if it’s noisy and chaotic and interrupted by snack requests throughout the sermon.
Some Sundays, we walk in late. Some Sundays, we leave early. And some Sundays, we’re all a little disheveled and barely holding it together. But we show up.
Mama, I know you’re tired. I know it feels like no one sees the effort it takes just to get out the door. But I see you. And more importantly, so do your children.
