As a child growing up in the South, I knew that Sunday was a holy and reverent day set aside from all the rest. Each one began the same: stirring from a deep sleep early in the morning, when the faintest light from sunrise was starting to appear; showering and dressing with preapproved outfits per my mother; shuffling off to the family car and loading up with my three sisters, church bound.
Spending time in church was part of the fabric of what it meant to be a member of my family. Throughout my childhood, we flitted from churches and denominations, including Southern Baptist, African Methodist Episcopal, and Catholicism. Not spending the start of the week in the “house of the Lord” rarely happened, and when it did, it was as if life itself had been disrupted. But there was another vital part of Sunday other than the ritualistic churchgoing: Sunday dinner. No Sunday was complete without the ornate feast my mother planned and prepared, often with my help.
After we spent the earlier half of Sunday in church, fellowshipping among other Black believers while receiving the pastor’s sermon and musical selections from the choir, a light breakfast and quick nap set the stage for what was to come. I’d sleep too long, always, because waking up early for anything was a pain. And when I shook off the grogginess, I’d slink off to the kitchen to chip in with the tasks that needed to be completed to execute supper.
Continue reading at Zora(Medium) here, courtesy of writer Nneka M. Okona.