Lonely On A Sunday
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Lonely on A Sunday

“Yet here I am, lonely on a Sunday.” 

I said those words while praying out loud in the shower. 

I wrote a similar phrase in my journal a little while later.

Sundays were the best days when I was a kid. We went to Grandma Myrtle’s for “Sunday chicken” with a glass of sweet tea after church, then I would play with my cousins for hours. Big, imaginative games, usually plucked from somewhere deep in my brain, me, taking full advantage of being the oldest to convince them to go along with it. Underneath Grandma’s piano became a house for our dolls. The clump of cedar trees at the edge of the yard became – anything we needed it to be. A weather station (someone let us watch “Twister” and we were obsessed with the idea of being storm chasers). A concert venue. Santa’s Workshop after watching “The Santa Clause.” Sometimes, we could convince Grandma to sneak us a Mickey Mouse bar in the afternoons. She started putting them in the freezer in the garage where we could get to them without our parents knowing. In hindsight, they must have known – the chocolate all over our faces was a dead giveaway. 

After hours of play, it was time for Sunday Supper. The adults ate at one table, the kids at another. Grandma was always the last to sit down, too busy making sure everyone had enough to eat and that the tea glasses were full. She would pull out dessert as the meal wound down, always a chocolate pie with whipped cream because the grandkids liked it and whatever cake she felt like baking that week. There was always ice cream, too. She would scoop around the strawberry when it was three flavored because I didn’t like. She’s almost 94 and still does that for me when I’m home. 

My Sundays are nothing like that anymore. 

I’m in an odd place in my life. A sort of “in between.” A place where God has shown me things, promised me things, even asked things of me that I’ve said a big “yes” to, and yet… here I sit. In the in between. In the waiting. In the asking Him to reveal what the next right thing is to get to the place He’s asking me to go. I’m still waiting expectantly for that answer. 

Let me see if I can explain the last several months. 

It started with a dream in July. I’ve only shared what it was about with a few close friends and I’m going to keep it that way for now, but when I woke up, I remembered every detail. I don’t dream. If I do, I don’t remember them. Once in a while an odd tidbit will stick for a while, but it’s far and few between and I forget it in a day or two. Yhis dream was real. Vivid. I can tell you the exact color of the tablecloth of the table I sat at, the design of the tiles in the restaurant, the view from the windows. I can recall what the small chalkboard easel said at the end of the bar where we had drinks, how the sand felt under my feet as I sat on a beach late at night, the wind whipping, the ocean angry. 

I remember every minute detail. 

That dream sent me on a journey for discernment. I wrote a little about that here. While I’m not sure if that dream is meant to play out verbatim in real life, it did have a purpose and I’m certain it came from God. I spent the remainder of 2021 diving deeper into my faith and spiritual gifts. If that alone was the purpose of my dream, it will have been worth it. But God does big work and, well, I think God’s hand is all over this one. 

Fast forward to January. 

Some of you will call me crazy, but I have heard the audible voice of the Holy Spirit in my life a few times. The first time was in 2007. I was babysitting and the kids were asleep. I sat at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad. I don’t remember what I was writing – probably drafting fanfiction to type up later – but as clear as though there were someone sitting at the table with me, I heard a voice say: 

“Nashville.” 

And I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I needed to get there. 

It took a few years – God sent me to Knoxville to finish my Bachelor’s degree at Tennessee first – but I drove into town January 16, 2011 with Kenny Chesney’s “I Go Back” playing on the radio as I got my first glimpse of the downtown skyline. 

My favorite song – a song about how music stamps the big moments in your life – on the radio at that exact moment. 

Not a coincidence. 

The most recent time was January of this year. I was journaling on my goals for 2022 when I heard that same clear voice give me a distinct direction. I scoffed – it was absurd – but I wrote it down anyway because it felt like I was supposed to. I even wrote “I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I feel like I’m supposed to.” I’ll share what it was one of these days – l know, so mysterious over here – but I realized later it was one year to the date of when I moved into my Los Angeles apartment. 

Again, not a coincidence. 

Since January, God has done some major work on my heart. 

What I thought I wanted isn’t what I want now. I went into 2022 with what I thought was a clear-cut path ahead. January Sarah could have never imagined the changes March Sarah’s heart would have. As we enter May, I’m blown away by the way God has moved in my life. 

Yet I’m lonely on a Sunday. 

Los Angeles has been great in a lot of ways. But it’s also been really hard in others. It’s not that I don’t have friends, people. It’s that I struggle to be authentic here, to find community. I keep trying new things, putting myself in new situations, extending invitations to get coffee and hoping they result in a new friend. 

Dating is a whole other beast. 

It’s especially hard to be in this place of waiting when you know in your heart of hearts that God has promised you good things ahead. It’s hard to be in this place of waiting when you have said that big YES to God’s call and in turn he’s said “but not quite yet.” 

It’s lonely in the waiting. 

I’m not the best at patience. I’m more of a “make it happen” kind of girl. God knows that. He made me like that. But He’s also teaching me a lesson in this waiting, in this lonely on a Sunday feeling – to trust in Him. Trust His timing. Know that the “nos” and the “not yets” will make sense someday. 

So that’s my confession for you: 

I’ve been lonely on a Sunday for a while now. 

It’s a season. 

Not a favorite season. 

Probably not the hardest season. 

I’m meant to walk through it, to learn from it. 

Being lonely on a Sunday won’t last forever. 

But I pray I remember this time. 

So I can look back and say ‘thank you’ for the time I prayed for the things I have now. 

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