None of us is particularly keen to do it. Not my husband, not me, none of our four kids. Dinner's done, table's wiped, the kitchen's finally clean. It's Sunday evening, the last shred of the weekend, and everyone's first choice would be a laid-back family movie. But we lean into it anyway, my husband pulling out his guitar and me rifling through song sheets, finding the children's Bible.
The service we'd attended that morning (and skipped last week altogether) was in Greek, and the kids couldn't get into the English translation piped-in via headphones. Eventually we let them go play in the tiny adjoining nursery area. No Sunday school, no Wednesday night AWANA, no Christian school teacher teaching verses or leading prayers. We six, here in our tall stone house in a Cretan foothill, comprise the body at this moment.
So we gather, all elbows and bumping, in the living room. Muttered complaints. The kids fight their rowdiness, spurred by stern words from me, as my husband tunes his guitar. A muted squabble over who's sitting in which seat persists well into the first song but we quell it by sheer perseverance; our singing volume finally drowns it out. Everyone loosens up a little, gives themselves to the reality that this is What We're Doing Now.Read More