The Battle for Sunday Morning

I went to church yesterday. I'm trying to make it every Sunday. Somehow, the pastor always seems to know who's missing—but more than that, I know God does too. He's there, waiting, patient and unchanging while I wrestle with my changes.

Every Sunday morning, the same battle unfolds. The alarm breaks the silence, but my bed holds me like an old friend. The blanket wraps around me, a warm cocoon of comfort and safety, whispering reasons to stay just a little longer. Part of me knows I need to move, to start the day, to get to church - but another part clings to this moment of peace before the marathon begins.

The clock on my bedside table keeps ticking, each minute a reminder of the mountain I must climb. Just the thought of what lies ahead weighs on me: ten minutes to wrestle my way out of bed, my arms doing the work my legs no longer can. An hour in the bathroom, every movement a careful choreography I've learned over these six years. Another hour just to get dressed, tasks that once took seconds now demanding patience and persistence.

I remember when I first stopped going. The way people looked at me on the street - those glances I'd never known before, heavy with what might have been pity or curiosity - they became too much to bear. For almost three years, my room became my sanctuary and my prison, my blankets a shield against the world's gaze.

Even church, which had once been my comfort, became a source of anxiety. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened," they said, but I felt like a stranger in a familiar place. The more crowded it got, the more I felt the space between me and everyone else. The building that once felt like home now felt suffocating. The empty parking lot felt safer than the full pews.

But something kept calling me back. Despite the fear, despite the discomfort, despite everything that made me want to stay hidden away, I knew I had to return. Embarrassing or not. Uncomfortable or not.

Because when I finally make it through those doors, when I take my place and close my eyes in worship, something changes. Strength rises within me like a wave, washing away my doubts. You're okay. You can do this. I will help you. These words flood my heart, not from the crowd around me, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere truer.