Ah, Sunday mornings. I wake to sun glittering along snowdrifts and slanting through windows. I spent the first part of the day buried in bed, typing out worship lyrics for kids' songs at mother's behest, before I rose and ate breakfast and put my hair up in a bun before church. I looked positively Victorian, which my mother protested, saying it was "youth Sunday" and that I really should look more "youthful." But I like my hair and I like my high-waisted skirt and polkadot blouse and white sailor collar. Ida came over half an hour before we were to leave, and I showed her the proper way to eat a peanut butter and jam sandwich.
"Really?" she said. "Peanut butter and jam together?"
"Really," I said. "One of the best things to come out of America."
Church was wonderful. I was up to my elbows in cables and sound equipment, trying to stretch my meagre supplies to catch the sound of an electric keyboard, four singers, two acoustic and one electric guitar. Worship went off very well, and Mike had an excellent sermon prepared, and Jakob mustered the strength through his fever to man the projector, and Masika sang a solo, all by her fourteen-year-old self. Impressive, no? I am proud of the work of our hands. And I am looking forward to many more such Sundays.