Growing up, Sunday always was my favorite day of the week. Picnic Sundays most of all. I remember "Roca Monte", a park and playground far away from home. It was a treat reserved for special occasions and we so looked forward to it weeks before the date. Far away back then, was an hour or so by bus and with my four other siblings, it meant a load of kid stuff - towels, powder, first aid kit and a clean change of Sunday clothes- and picnic baskets and throw-up bags. Until I was in school, I never got farther than a few minutes on a vehicle without - excuse me - throwing up.
Getting ready on the morning of the picnic was quite a feat; bathing, changing, breakfast not to mention the squabbling in between. We were up at wee hours but by the time we got to our destination, it was time for lunch. And before I was done with the swings and seesaws and the giant elves and mushroom figures in the park, it was pack-up time. I remember always feeling cheated out of my good time, and all because we had to be in church, on time for the 3 o'clock Sunday mass! I think until the day I stopped playing, I never liked church but it was a house rule ever since I can remember: church before anything else on a Sunday.
Now I'm glad I grew up with that house rule because I could never have managed life without my God. Our church Sundays turned out to be my greatest blessing. Many times in my life, people couldn't be there for me and church is where I go and there He will be, never too busy for my cares. When the real world seem unbearable, church becomes my refuge and almost always, I feel better after, like someone has taken the load off me and bore it for me. On really bad days, I go at a time I know only empty pews and my good, old friend on the cross will be there; and then I cry my heart out, shamelessly; profusely.
