In the beginning it felt a little odd not getting ready first thing every Sunday morning. Since then it's grown on us. Going on Sunday afternoons has made our day of rest significantly more restful.
We eat a nice family breakfast. (Today we had eggs and cheese on some English muffins I splurged on from the import store). We linger at the table while J graciously teaches our family, longer than our other days since we have more time.
The kids go down for an early afternoon nap. I clear the table and we talk about plans for the upcoming week, who we want to visit, where we want to go, what we're going to study.
Even though it starts at 2 in the afternoon, somehow we still always manage to be rushing at the last minute. We arrive as the singers make their way to the front and we set up four of the overflow stools behind the last row, somewhat because we have (noisy) little kids, but mostly because J's feet physically do not fit between the existing rows, not to mention his knees. We tried to sit closer to the front once and all the folding chairs around him formed an awkward circle as the disturbed rows conformed to accommodate his frame.
The time still feels a little odd. The language is different. The whole back of the building is open to the sidewalk behind and a row of shops on the other side. One of the shopkeepers is painting. Another is power washing his store front. There's an argument going on in the one of the restaurants. Dogs bark. E-bikes whiz by. But in a place where most things most days of the week still feel very strange, this place feels normal. We stand to sing and sit to listen. We shake hands and S sings along (rather loudly), "In Him we are all one."
One of the grandma's pats my shoulder and tells me that S looks cold. Another grandma lends B her sun hat after he vigorously patted his head and said, "hat! hat!" (She doesn't speak English, I think the head patting tipped her off).
We sit back down and the kids start to get restless. A sister, crippled from birth, hobbles over on one crutch to bring them peanuts. B fingers the spokes of the wheelchair next to us and the older man in it half-smiles and reaches across his body to pat B's head with his right hand.
On mother's day, they brought me a carnation and made me stand even though I had no idea what was going on. On bread-eating Sundays, they make sure we are never missed.
We may live in another land but in this place there are no locals or foreigners, no businessmen or housekeepers, no white or brown, slave or free.
There is only family. One family. Our family.
Although my mouth may not know the words, this place makes my heart sing each and every week.