I really tried to wear a dress to church today. That doesn't sound so hard, does it? In honor of our 10th anniversary (and the obligatory standing-in-front-of-the-church-to-put-in-our-dime-and-be-sung-at), I tried to wear the dress I wore when we left for our honeymoon. Wasn't working, no reason why. The two clean boys were still happily splashing in the bath while I checked in and listened, so I tried a skirt and blouse. Never mind that the skirt needed a good ironing and ironing was NOT on the morning's agenda.
Until: "Mama, what is this?"
How is it that mama can hear in the most innocent of words that there is trouble a-brewin'? The question contained nothing ominous... yet, I knew.
Enter the bathroom to find one boy holding up a handful of poop.
Further investigation revealed that, as is usually the case, both boys had pooped at the same time. In the same tub.
I'll skip over the messy details, but suffice it to say that I changed out of the white blouse and wrinkly purplish skirt and put on brown pants, brown belt, brown knit shirt. Oh, and a necklace.
But after the clean up, and negotiations with boys who thought they should wear towels to church instead of pants, and combing blond hair on two moving targets [imagine here two toga-clad boys who have discovered that if all the doors are open they can chase each other in circles around their room, mama's room, and the hallway], and the choosing of what shoes to wear, I heard myself muttering a question if it was all worth it.
Is it worth it? All this work just to go to church?
"I rejoiced with those who said to me, 'Let us go to the house of the Lord.'"
The answer: a resounding yes. It was worth it. I had no epiphanies, saw no fire from heaven. But I was given an hour to praise the Lord. An hour surrounded by others who were also led through the difficulties of the week, the day, the hour, to be there to praise the Lord. And it was good.
Maybe next week I'll wear a skirt.