My Sunday Best

There was a day when the neatly hung dresses in my closet served a purpose. Now as I open the closet door Sunday mornings they stare back at me. Begging. Pleading. If I listen carefully I can hear their lowly moans cry out, "Pick me! Pick me!"

Truth is, I haven't picked them. In a long, long time.

As a girl I grew up in a church where all the little girls, young ladies and older women wore their finest frillies on Sunday mornings. It was quite taboo not to, in fact. If a woman stepped foot under the steeple in pants or (gasp) jeans, she obviously didn't fit in. Sunday nights were give or take. Some wore pants, some more casual dresses. However, a dress was the law of the land in my family. In fact, even when my older sister and I began public school we were made to wear dresses. Coming from a private school where that was the code, it just seemed natural. Until we began our journey into public school. No one wore dresses there. Like ever. Except my sister and I. We used to rebelliously roll up pants underneath our skirts to escape the drama of being the odd ones at school. Until we got caught. Then we had to flip our skirts up every morning for a pants check prior to waiting out for the bus. I think my mom had compassion on us eventually, for after a while she caved a little and allowed us two days a week of the forbidden pants. I laugh about it all now. What was once so huge, so dramatic and many tears shed over; just now seems silly.

No, dresses always cramped my style. I never have enjoyed doing the whole "dress-up" thing. It was my older sisters thing, not mine. I was more of a tom-boy kinda gal. Frilly just ain't me. Never has been. So every Sunday when I would haul out another dress from the closet and put it on, I just never ever felt myself. Yet, when Hubs and I started young in ministry, we felt it was our duty to set the example. For what...we're just not sure. He in his far too uncomfortable suit (which he has always detested, and reserves now only for funerals...and that's only if he's officiating.), and me in my awkwardly-not-me dress. Uncomfortable and fake. But we were martyrs for the Lord's sake, for I'm sure he would look down, smile and bestow His blessings on us every Sunday morning for our holy apparel. (Heavy sarcasm there, in case you missed it.) Looking back, I wished I could've seen then what I see now. In our early married years we attended church with many "casual people". Casually dressed, being who they are and not willing to display a show for anyone. Truth be told, they were more real than I ever was. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would just simply be me. Even if my rebellion against fitting a mold cost us. No one ever told me I couldn't, but there is some sort of implied misconception within our churches. We musn't struggle with certain things deemed "unchristlike", our children must be well-behaved, and for heaven's sake we must wear our Sunday best for church. After all, the Lord is watching. As well as everyone else, you know. And they are. Watching. And looking for belonging. And when they enter in only to find no belonging they'll move on to a place where they can. My mission in life isn't to fit all snugly comfy in a pew full of people whom believe the same thing I do. All of us in our Sunday best. I can understand why so many un-churched people dread the typical traditional church setting. There's an unspoken, unwritten rule: If you don't look like us, live like us, talk like us...you aren't one of us. Who wants to go anywhere where they feel they don't belong? And to step foot in most churches now days, I just have to ask...what do they see that they would feel they need? Hopefully it would be love, compassion, belonging. And it just so happens that all of those traits point to God. No, "outsiders" don't care about appearances, a well-spoken sermon, or perfectly orchestrated music. People just want to be loved. Unconditionally. By people who are real. Not just keeping up with appearances.

And so, that is why my dresses collect dust in my closet. It's not me, and I want to be real. Forthcoming with my imperfections. Honest with my struggles. In church, outside of church. With Christians, and with those who don't know Christ. I want them to find belonging with me, so that ultimately I can point them to The One in whom I have found belonging with. And He's okay with my Sunday best being pants. Honestly.