Yep, Sunday is Church Day for me. Every Sunday I’m able to attend, at least. I always try to go to Sacrament meeting, but I don’t always make it for second hour classes. That all depends on how my PTSD is going (or not). I’m getting better at staying for the whole service. I sit in the second row and near the door, so there’s never any problem getting out if I need to. I try not to think about all the people sitting behind me. Sometimes that bothers me. I used to sit in the back because of that, but sitting in the back presents it’s own problems. I get to the chapel plenty early so that I can read, pray, and just get used to the environment while it’s quiet and nobody else is there. The organist comes in about an hour after I do to practice. He asked me a couple of weeks ago why I come so early and I told him that it’s just to calm down and settle in. He thought that was really cool. It takes a lot of extra time and preparation for me to sit through a simple church service, but not many know that. I’m not a person who does well skidding in with two minutes to spare and grabbing a random seat only moments before the service begins. I don’t do well with that at all. All the extra time and preparation is worth it to me, though, so that I can at least attend Sacrament. It’s very important to me and that makes the extra worth every moment of Sacrament meeting that I’m able to attend. Sometimes I leave immediately after the Sacrament is administered, but other times, I’m able to make it through the entire service. It just depends on the day. Today, I need to make it through the entire two hours of meetings because I don’t know when the two Bishopric Counselors are going to be available to give me a blessing. I spoke with the Bishop yesterday and he said he would get ahold of his Second Counselor about it. Today will be a good day. So far, so good.
Content Rating PG, for the most part
I try to keep the content of my posts in the PG range (meaning that maybe your 13-year-old should not read it... Just kidding!) - you know, something I could get away with tastefully in the town square without getting lynched, tarred-and-feathered, or hung (and something my mother would NOT wash my mouth out with soap for). As far as what age you have to be to understand some of the subtleties of my humor in writing and/or speaking, well... That may vary. A lot.