Saturday, September 10, 2011
Old War, Part 2
When you wake up on Sunday feeling like there is no way in hell you are going to church, trust me:
That's just Satan fucking with your head.
I’ve always known this. The idea of spiritual warfare was introduced to me before I can even remember, and it has always made perfect sense. I’m so aware of it, actually, that I have many a time forgotten that it isn’t a typical thing to mention to people you don’t know that well, which leads to a tricky recoil.
My dad used to shout out the fact that our senseless Sunday morning rage was caused by the demons winning the tiny battle in our little, flea-infested house, to get us not to hear God’s word. I couldn’t argue, but I wouldn’t admit the invisible struggle either. Between me and my two little sisters, we could cause a shitfit that would make the neighbors’ dogs howl.
There was something about those fits though. They were always worse than just any family clash.
Only on certain and few mornings would I side with my dad. That would undoubtedly make both my sisters feel ganged-up on, which kindled the high-pitched fire. It was rare when I fully joined in on the familial tantrum, because I was the oldest. I would, though, save my best anti-church fury for when it really counted. And every now and then it would work, and we would get to skip church.
The utter relief of knowing that you’ve successfully beat your own parents down enough to admit that walking into church this late would be more embarrassing for them than it was worth, is a glorious feeling to say the least.
There was something, though. There was something about Sunday mornings. I always felt a distinct pushing; a pushing to be a complete wreck before getting in the car to go to a church service.
This is the unexplainable part.
When things go fine, when it isn’t at all a chore to get to church on Sunday, something is missing. This too has happened as long as I can remember, and continues to this day. If there is a struggle, if there is just a bitter torment to get your ass out of bed and get into communion with good people, if it is just plain hard to do - something ends up touching you on that very morning. This happens to me without fail. It is almost a game now. I know what type of service I’m about to experience because of how hard the enemy tries to get me to avoid it.