Sunday Blues

There was a time around Valentine’s Day (Btw this year’s was the best ever!) when I could just wake up on Sunday mornings and I could feel God’s presence embracing me. It seemed as if God was pacing my room stealing a look at me every millisecond or so (twiddling His thumbs for good effect), waiting for me to wake up. And when I did, He just rushed to my side and hugged me.
That those were glorious mornings would be an understatement. Instead of getting bludgeoned with self-made worry and paranoia, I could just bask in the glory of His presence. Like I was always meant to.

That was then. Don’t really know how everything went south from there. Guess I attributed some kind of voodoo to Sundays, taking God for granted and assuring myself that all Sundays would be magical regardless of whether I thirsted for God or not. Maybe I sought the experience more than I sought God. Maybe I should have longed more deeply for Him. I have no idea. 

But my friend Jacob did use to say
‘Jesus fed thousands, yet only twelve were at His Passover table. And only one nestled at His bosom. As we draw near to Him, He draws near to us.’

Those Sundays already seem like a distant memory. I wish they didn’t.