It was the most stunning November day — bright blue skies with perfectly-placed puffball clouds that matched the Toy Story wallpaper of Andy’s childhood room. The sun rays served as heaters as we dared to walk barefoot, the earth like a blanket with a gentle autumn breeze.
Neighborhood kids dashed from the bus to their bikes while thankful moms scurried to the nearest park and playground, desperate to drink in every drop of the day. After all, it was November. Winter was coming. Skeletons had already been replaced with snow globes and Christmas lights lined our little lane with galaxies of endless twinkle. The forecast made its message clear: I’m not going to be this warm again for a while.
I stepped outside early, two kids in tow, both bundled in sweaters and hats because after all, it was November. The promise of a seventy-degree day surely had some secret stinger: a brutal wind, pop-up showers, a morning warmth that would quickly turn to a midday freeze. But no — the day was perfect. We went from walking to chalking to hours at the park, swinging and sliding until it got dark.
It would be very much in our nature to spend a pretty day at the park anyway, but this one was different. It was a pretty day in November. Quite possibly the last warm day for months and months and agonizing months. It wasn’t that we wanted to be outside. It was that we had to be outside. We had to soak in every bit of that warmth if we wanted any sort of fighting chance at surviving a midwest winter. We had to cling closely to this late-autumn memory of warm grass, sunshine, and blue skies. We wouldn’t have the strength for January without it.
This sort of survival mentality — the mindset of drinking so deeply of something in hopes that it will last you a long time — reminds me a lot of the local church. The gathering of God’s people on Sunday mornings is not unlike that rare seventy-degree November day: if we’re going to make it through a week of winter in the world, we have to intentionally relish every moment of that sunny sacred assembly. Showing up with the body of believers to sing the Word, pray the Word, and sit under the teaching of the Word is the God-given equivalent to that last warm day in November. If you don’t soak it in on Sunday, it’s going to be tough to have the stamina to face a cold, bleak world throughout the week.
And this feels especially relevant, because I almost didn’t go to church on Sunday. The night before was Halloween and the end of daylight savings time, which meant my kids went to bed late, slept terribly, and woke up at 4:45. I was a zombie, and I’m not talking about my costume. Joe had to be at church early, which meant I got to load a cluster-feeding one-month old and her running-on-fumes brother into a van looking somewhat presentable and feeling somewhat fed. At one point, all three of us were crying.
It was not once, not twice, but three times that I slammed down whatever I was holding and told myself, Grinchlike, “That’s it, I’m not going.” Why go through the hassle and humiliation of public meltdowns when we can just change back into jammies and be a mess at home? I really didn’t want to go.
Twice I stopped the van and nearly turned around. Twice I sat like a statue in the driver’s seat, paralyzed by indecision but desperately wanting to curl in a ball and sleep. And yet twice, the Spirit prompted us forward with gentle encouragements, peace in the back seat, and reminders of the richness of God’s people gathered.
I was still icy as I walked through the door. My heart grew even colder as Lainey cried during church, sending me to the back to bounce her to sleep. But then glorious gospel truth was sung by a congregational choir and it felt like the sun on my face. The sound of Bible pages turning whispered through the air like a breeze and I felt the ice start to melt even more. “The body of Christ, broken for you,” smiled the woman serving communion, and tears filled my eyes. This was soul care. This was the precious sunshine I needed to bask in, the late-autumn warmth I had to cling to. I needed to drink deeply of the gospel being preached — to be corporately reminded of Christ’s work on the cross, to sing “Jesus, Thank You” alongside saints young and old.
Much like our desperation to let a sunny day fuel us for all of winter, we need Sunday to fuel us for the week. The world is tough and dark and dreary, where trials and temptations abound. We stand no chance at making it without that fill-up of the holy assembly, the metaphorical sunshine on a sweet November day. Jesus, thank you!
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