Most of you have probably noticed I'm not around here on Sundays. In fact, it's rare that I even get on my computer on Sundays. For me, it's the day of rest and the Internet is a distraction that I find I can easily do without for 24 hours. But... what do I do in those 24 hours?

Here's the rundown.

7:00 a.m.

The alarm rings. It's not for me, it's for Mercy, but since I'm on the bottom bunk, I have to turn it off. Groggily, hoping to wake myself up as little as possible, I push up on one elbow, push the switch, and sink back into a drowse. Vaguely I hear Mercy climbing down to work on her memory verse.

7:30 a.m.

Someone's standing by my bed. Mercy. Wonderful, it's time to get up.

"Verity, it's 7:33."

"Got it," I slur out, and savor a few more delicious minutes of slowly waking up before I lurch out of bed and head upstairs to breakfast. Sometimes my mom makes a coffee cake or a crisp for Sunday breakfasts, something special; today it's just toast. I'm still tired, too tired to be very hungry, and only manage to cram two pieces of bread down my gullet. I hurry downstairs to my still-warm blankets, hoping to get some more cozy cuddles before 8:00.

8:30 a.m.

On any other day of the week, I would still be asleep. Instead I'm standing at the kitchen sink, fully dressed down to sweater and shoes, rinsing off the last of the breakfast dishes. From the living room come the loud moans of Constance, my four-year-old sister, getting her hair brushed. I wander in to observe the procedure.

"I need my SHOES, Mommy... I need to get my shoes!"

Nice ploy.

I grab my Sunday bag, which is sadly minus one of its handles, and head back to my room to study my memory verse for Sunday School, which my sisters have dutifully been working on all week. The flip side of good short-term memory is procrastination. Still, I did finish the lesson last night, so I don't have that to worry about. I plunk myself down at my desk and pull out the strip of paper. Acts 16:30-34. "Sirs, what must I do to be saved?..."

9:00 a.m.

Time to head out the car. I step out into the bracing October morning of probably 46 degrees, suffer a momentary qualm as to the adequacy of my sweater, and decide to brave it anyway. The car is full of the noise of eight children, most of whom don't seem to know that this small, enclosed space is not made for raised voices. Almost everyone is doing last-minute Sunday School memory. But no-one is quarreling, and overall the atmosphere feels cheerful.

The parents appear; it must be 9:15 or thereabouts. Mom settles down on the passenger side. My father slides with his practiced grace into the driver's seat and turns the key in the ignition in almost the same movement. Five minutes later, we're turning into the church parking lot.

The church building is warm, the faces inside full of welcome. Everyone seems so glad on Sunday mornings. I feel contentment, quietude, and bubbling joy; a smile bursts out of me in answer to every "Good morning".

Today is the first Sunday of the month, and that means I'm the piano player. I set my bag down in our pew, walk to the piano and arrange the books there, and peek into the kitchen to check the time. 9:25 -- time to start the prelude.

9:30 a.m.

The last chord of the prelude dies away. My father, standing behind the pulpit, raises his head. "A warm welcome to all who have gathered here this Lord's Day to worship with us," he says, his voice ringing throughout the sanctuary with warm conviction. "Members, visitors, friends from afar. Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Will you stand with me now, as God calls us into his presence, to worship."

The order of service is arranged simply, designed to point to God's desire for us and our response to him. We are called into his presence by the reading of Scripture, and respond with congregational singing. We hear the Law, the ten commandments given on Sinai, a prayer of confession for the way we have failed to keep that law, and a passage that declares God's mercy on us, even though we have failed to keep it. Another hymn leads into the pastoral prayer, addressing God in petitions, which is followed by collection of tithes and offerings to God. Thanksgiving is offered for God's gifts to us, which we now give back to him, and a third hymn precedes the climax of the service: the reading and preaching of God's holy word.

Our morning sermons have been taking us through Acts, and my father has paid special attention to Chapter 7, Stephen's defense before the Jews: this is our third message on "Handling the Word of God". I take a few notes in a sporadic way, doodle faces on my bulletin to help me concentrate. The sermon closes with prayer, and I get up to go to the piano once again. A hymn, the benediction, and finally the recessional hymn. The service is over. The congregation breaks into quiet chattering, small knots of people growing slowly noisier as the kids stretch their limbs and dash around.

10:50 a.m.

The bell rings. Unlike most churches, our Sunday School hour follows the service rather than preceding it. There are three children's classes and two adult ones, with a third adult class just recently started for the sake of some new, regular visitors who are unaccustomed to the material the others have been dealing with.

I'm in the high school/young adult class, extending usually from ages 13-21. Perhaps a biased opinion here, but it's the best class. We're a group of young people learning how to stand strong in our faith, exploring the reaches of doctrines, studying, arguing, and sometimes agreeing to disagree. Right now, we're studying Acts, a deliberate decision on the part of our teacher. He said that the more you hear something, the more it will stick. So not only do we get to hear a sermon on it, we get to pick it apart during Sunday School.

11:45 a.m.

Sunday School is out. Everyone's lingering a little, but slowly making their way toward their vehicles. As usual, our family is the last one out of the church. My dad locks the door, and we head home.

I change out of my church attire and go upstairs to chat with my mom as she prepares pizza dough left over from last night and puts it in the oven. "Make two pizzas," I tell her. "I'm starving."

Constance has been trailing me, demanding that I find her something to wear out of a box of used clothes that a friend just gave us. Everything is way too big, but I hand her a slightly oversized shirt and hope she makes the best of it.

"Play Daddy music," she tells me while in my room, referring to a CD of Psalms which includes my dad singing Psalm 51. After lunch, she refuses to detach herself from me, and snuggles up next to me as I lie down for my Sunday afternoon nap.

This is regrettable, because I soon find that I can't sleep. Every time I start to drift off, she makes some kind of abrupt position change and grabs for my finger to hold. The best I can get is a semi-doze.

5:00 p.m.

I'm roused from unsuccessful attempts at sleep by Mercy and reluctantly get up, feeling that my afternoon has been wasted. Upstairs in the living room, we make sibling small talk and vaguely scrape together unofficial supper -- sandwich material, oatmeal with apples, peanut-butter smoothie. By 6:00, almost everyone has eaten, which is good, because it's time to get ready for evening church.

Constance slinks into the closet as I finish dressing. "Hi, Vewity." Her grin on an adult would be called sinister. As it is, she looks charmingly diabolical.

"Hi, Constance," I respond, deadpan.

I let her button up the last button on my blouse. We're running late; I worry I might not have time to do the dishes.

6:45 p.m.

"Pull up to the door, please, Mommy." Daddy already left at 3 in the afternoon to finish sermon prep at church, so my mom drives us to the evening service. Now it's five minutes till the service starts and I should be on the piano bench right this second. I brush past the groups of busily talking people and start the prelude.

6:50 p.m.

The evening service starts off with a hymn sing. Three selections. It's one of the highlights of my day when I'm the accompanist; I love the anticipation of getting to play something new. Then the call to worship comes, and I feel a breathless wonder as the weighty words of Revelation 21:3 descend upon the congregation: "Behold! The tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people. God himself will be with them, and be their God."

The evening service follows a similar pattern to the morning, but the reading of the Law and the subsequent prayer and assurance of pardon are omitted, and the pastoral prayer is addressed specifically to the needs of the congregation. We have finished a sermon series based in the Psalms, and so tonight my father returns to one that we broke off nearly three years ago, in Exodus. Perhaps my nap-not-nap did a little good after all; I do feel more alert and attentive than I did this morning. The message deals with the background to the passage, where we left off -- Moses vanishing into the inferno of cloud and fire to hear God's word --, touches on the principle of worship, and finishes by drawing a strong parallel between Moses, the imperfect mediator, and Jesus, our perfect mediator.

When the service is over and the last hymn sung, the people break again into relaxed, animated groups prepared to linger for a long time. The night's young -- it's only 8:00. By the time we leave the church building (last ones out again) it's nearly 9 and the night is pitch-black and cold. My dad is in a total jokester mood, cracking everybody up. He's all done for the day and ready to unwind.

9:20 p.m.

The kids are all hanging out in the kitchen. We ate at 5:30, after all; bedtime snacks on Sunday are the norm. Mercy finally drags me and Peace downstairs, and we spend half an hour singing trios together before our dad comes into the room to pray with us, as he does every night he's home. Then we get in bed, and talk. What do we even talk about on Sunday nights? I never know. There seems to be all the time in the world to talk about everything and nothing. By the time we stop, it's 11:45 and Mercy has to be up to milk in less than two hours. I drag myself up, turn the fan on, and sink back down with a stuffed animal close for comfort.

Good-night, world. Tomorrow it's Monday.

nightwraith17 told me to do this, so if you were bored, blame her XD. It's also apparently supposed to be a tag, so if anyone else wants to talk about their typical Sundays, you're tagged to do it. I'll read them!