one Sunday morning

BEEP BEEP BEEP BE--thwack.

It's Sunday morning. With my face still buried under my pillows, I fumble for the shrieking alarm and swat the snooze button. I rub the sleep off my eyes and stare at the red digits of the clock. 7:30, it reads.

"Lord, forgive my laziness. Rouse this wretched body of mine with your Spirit. Cleanse my lips from presumptuous sins, that I may be worthy to sing you praises today. I am yours, Lord." I pray silently, while I muster enough willpower to lift myself out of the bed.

I get up, stretch my aching limbs and yawn like a hibernating grizzly. I'm awake. Still a tad drowsy, but awake. The rest of my family continue to doze. I hear my father's trademark snores resound through the thin wooden walls of our apartment. They won't be waking up until three hours later.

Thirty minutes later, after a quick shower and a breakfast of a small bowl of milk and cereal, I walk out of the house. I silently close the door, twisting the doorknob again to make sure that I locked it properly. I reach for my cellphone and call Pastor Guillermo.

"Good morning, Pastor Guillermo! How are you today? Can I hitch with you again?" Sure, he says. He'll be at my place in seven minutes. I tell him that I'm ready, and I'll just be meeting him outside.

It's still early. The morning Texas sun peeks from a clump of feathery clouds, and bathes my face with cool rays of light. A breeze wafts from the rugged mesquite trees nearby, where some sparrows twitter and flit from branch to branch. I inhale deeply, and smell the earthy fragrance of summer grass.

A black pick-up truck stops in front of our apartment. I run to it and open the car door. Pastor Guillermo's friendly face greets me. "Where are your kids?" I ask. Omar and the other guys are still at home, he replies. They had attended a quinceanera the previous night, and they got back home really late. They'll be going to the eleven o'clock service instead with their mother.

In a short while, we lurch to a stop in front of an ancient red-bricked building: our church, First Baptist Church Weslaco. After thanking Pastor Guillermo profusely for the ride, I head to the library.

I stay there for fifteen minutes, while waiting for the first service to start. I thumb through titles like, "Church History" and "The Cost of Discipleship." The latter catches my attention. It's by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the young German theologian who was martyred during the Third Reich. I take out the borrower's card, fill it out, and drop it into the box. After stashing the book into my backpack, I go up the stairs to the main hall.

I gingerly walk through the aisle and settle myself on the second pew from the front. The choir, largely composed of elderly people, enters through the back doors and position themselves on the sanctuary. Bobbi and James, my friends from Sunday school, and the youngest members of the choir, wave at me. I wave and grin back.

Melodious strains of background piano music slowly fill the hall. The choir stands up, opens their song folders, and starts to sing "To God Be the Glory."

Immediately I am on my feet. I close my eyes. And I see Him.

I love you, Lord, for you loved me first,
you fill my gaps and quench my thirst.