Sundays

I often tell my friends (guys especially) how busy my Sundays are at home. Still, most of these cologne-drenched Millenials somehow never believe that a well-read, poised, and elegant girl like me can wash dishes, iron her father’s shirts and cook chapati. And they are right…well, the cooking chapo part. But I have to make them believe it because I have to carve a niche for myself. I have to carry myself as the quintessential catch who is intelligent, educated, and beautiful but who can also fetch water, cook a decent meal, and find anything in the dark. I have to make them believe that I am the fine linen they describe as wife material because if I don’t, reading books will expire me.

However, the rest is not make-believe, and Sundays are the worst. Sunday mornings always have me prancing in heels, jumping small water puddles, and barely missing death by crazy motorbikes all in a bid to catch a bus to my bougee church in the city. Drunkards making their way home from dingy taverns will tell me to pray for them while faithful like me always late for their Sunday service will shove me as they try to make their way to the few remaining seats in the bus. As a result, I always spend the rest of the journey muttering about how off-putting their perfumes are and how oddly pious their clothes are, yet their behavior is nothing but sacrilegious. However, the quite extreme sport is trying to dodge street kids in town who want me to part with my hard-earned money, or they will smear my thrifted Bottega Veneta bag with faeces. Yet, I always make it to church, sit neatly, and listen to the sermon because here in church-Nice Girls Do Get the Corner Office. 

I still also manage to teach a bunch of Sunday School kids that are quite delightful and though tired and hungry by 1 p.m, I always refuse the generous lunch date offers from well-groomed bible-believing young men to go home and wash dishes. Small mundane tasks like dusting window panes and removing cobwebs that my father takes a keen interest in follow after that, and by 4 p.m, I am zonked. Yet my mother will insist that I have to learn how to cook soft and circular chapatis, because how else do you win a man’s heart? I will complain that I can’t learn how to cook well if all she does is measure the ingredients using her eyes, but this will not dissuade her well-meaning intentions. And afterward, I will have to iron my father’s clothes crisp but he will insist that I never iron the wrists well enough.

Horrendous as those Sundays sound, I do miss the routine. As the Sundays drag on week after week, I am afraid that my commitment to attending live services from youtube is fading. With no handsome pianists, guitarists, and drummers to ogle at as we worship, praise and worship barely feel the same. As I sing along to hymns projected on my screen, and as I stare at a bored service leader lead an almost solemn liturgy, I regret the moments I did not jump to the Lord in church. I feel guilty for not turning to my neighbor to high five and tell them, ‘You shall prosper!’  With no kids to teach, no dates to decline, and no white Monday shirts to iron, there is nothing home to write about Sundays anymore.

In these trying times, I have been tempted to think that Christianity is stuck inside a biblical world that can no longer speak to the challenges of life with Twitter, Tik Tok videos, and a looming pandemic. Still, hope remains with each day that I wake up, and each monotonous Sunday that I now find myself living. In these seemingly disorganized and interrupted days, I often remind myself of C.S Lewis’s words, “ The truth is, of course, that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life- the life God is sending one day by day.”