Ah, Sundays. A day of rest. A day for worshipping God with raised hands and praise songs. A day for family time. A day of tranquility.
I don’t know if Satan works overtime on Sundays, but it makes sense he would. After all, Christians are supposed to devote this one day a week--or at least a couple hours--to focusing on God. So I have deduced that Satan pulls out all stops on Sundays.
For our family, one Sunday pretty much looks like any other Sunday. There are a myriad of contentious situations Satan can choose from, and they appear in random order and are about equally effective in wreaking havoc on our household.
The conflicts generally surface with the first call to our teenager to get out of bed--and that’s precisely when today’s discord began.
“You need to get ready for church, Son.”
“I’m going to second service.”
“No you’re not--you’re going with us.”
“I’m too tired.”
“I guess you should have gone to bed earlier. Now get up.” You get the picture. And the grumbling does not cease until we exit the car at church.
We each put on our ‘happy family’ face for church, but pick right up with the bad attitudes on the drive home. Today’s topic: Just Get a Job.
It starts with my husband and son ...
“Quit coming up with all these pie-in-the-sky schemes and just go get a job.”
“Why do you always put down my ideas?”
“I don’t. Why don’t you just get a job?”
Somehow their discussion morphs into an argument between my husband and me. (Not that I’m disagreeing with my husband--I just become a little concerned when he starts in with, “get off your lazy derriere and quit being so picky about where you work.”)
The arguing then comes full circle to where we started this morning--back to dissention between my son and me. By the time we get home, we’re all yelling, doors are slamming … and Satan is winning.
To demonstrate my frustration with the whole ordeal, I boldly announce that I am not going shopping with my husband (where I was going to buy some adorable brown boots on sale); and I emphasize my displeasure by soundly stomping up the stairs and closing our bedroom door with extreme force.
That oughta show them. I’m not coming out until they both apologize.
And I wait. After all, they are the ones being ridiculous … acting immature.
I hear my son come out of his room. Oh good--he’s coming to apologize.
But, no. He’s not coming to my room. He’s going downstairs. I hear him and my husband talking … apologizing to each other … laughing … eating.
Hey, what about me? Don’t I deserve an apology? Doesn’t anyone care I’m up here all alone?
Uh-oh. Now I’m hungry. But I can’t go downstairs--that would be admitting defeat. I have to hold my ground in the bedroom. Forget about your hunger. Forget about your hunger.
At least it’s almost time for the basketball game. I refuse to go downstairs to watch it on the big screen, high definition television set--with surround sound. No, I’ll watch it up here all by myself. That’ll get ‘em. Wait. They couldn’t care less about watching the game. I’m the one who wants to see it. And now I’m stuck in my room, with the little t.v. Great plan.
If I keep holding out, eventually they’ll come apologize.
Three hours later I wake up on the bedroom floor. I fell asleep and missed the entire game. Wonderful.
So, how is my plan working so far? I’m hungry. I didn’t get my brown boots. I missed the basketball game. I have a sore hip from the hard floor. And … no one seems to care.
As I sit here contemplating how long I can hold out in the bedroom, I realize there are no sounds coming from other areas of the house. Maybe they’re both gone. Now’s my chance to stock up on some much-needed supplies. Like cookies.
I slowly open the bedroom door, listening carefully. Nothing. Coast is clear. I tip-toe downstairs, grab a fistful of chocolate chip cookies in one hand, and gingersnaps in the other. As I begin my ascent back to my boudoir, I’m met by the enemy.
“Hi honey. How was your nap? I hope it helped. Are you in a better mood now?”
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