The Banzai Chronicles

Sundays are a mixed bag for me; part of living in a fallen world. Probably more about whether I receive God's blessing with gratitude than anything else. I get to worship God with a church I love—singing to Him with beautiful music, confessing and receiving His grace, reading His word, praying to Him, hearing the gospel preached with honesty and power, partaking of the sacrament of communion, being sent back into the world to bear witness to His truth and love. Moreover, these activities are also part of the job with which I've been blessed. Even though it can be busy and occasionally hectic, I have the privilege and honor of serving there, and even of being paid to do so. I experienced all of these things fully and richly today.

Yet I can also get into a unique funk on Sundays. Being "on" the whole time, responding to a steady stream of questions and concerns, and working until I'm tired may all contribute to it. The enemy's strategies and attacks likely have a special Sunday flavor. Whatever the case, I find part of myself harshly critical in my Sunday mood, of others and especially of myself.

Nothing's coming out right lately. My life is good, but I have the sense (or the fear) that I'm missing something that everyone else has figured out. There are ways I don't feel cut out for normal life, and it's little wonder I'm as alone as I feel sometimes. I feel disconnected from all of my friends, feel a distance that I cannot cross and can only fumble with. I'd like to not be so sensitive to these things sometimes, to not pick up on the discomfort and the feelings behind the words and the quiet—to be ignorant, oblivious. But I know when I'm connecting, and I know when I'm not.

OK, now I feel like crap. There are times when writing helps, but this isn't one of them.