I wore jeans on Easter Sunday.

I don’t remember the last time I missed church on Easter—or if there ever even has been a time. The Lord’s triumphant return from the grave, spring’s return to our calendars, and lapsed parishioners’ return to pews amalgamate into an unmissable Super-Bowl-Sunday among the observant. It’s like the newest club that has everything: fashion. Crowded sanctuaries. Clogged parking lots. Boisterous hymns.

And we missed it all. My family—husband, boys aged three years and six months, and I—have unintentionally participated in a sabbatical from church since our youngest was born last fall. We knew we would take a break once Little Brother came along; sleeplessness, C-section recovery, and sleeplessness guarantee such an outcome. But the blessed birth coincided with a dustup at our church home that left the preacher on his own sabbatical and the congregation’s fate unclear, and as the dust settled and resettled and really didn’t settle at all, my husband and I lounged groggily in our family room and agreed that maybe we’d get back to it next week. Every week.

Read the rest over at Mockingbird!