The Sunday She Didn’t Want to Go

She stared at the clock on the microwave like it had betrayed her. 9:42 a.m. The church service started in eighteen minutes, and the sanctuary was exactly seventeen minutes away—on a good day.

Rain clawed gently at the kitchen window. Not a storm, not a downpour, just the kind of persistent drizzle that makes sweaters feel like sandpaper and umbrellas like a joke. Her coat hung on the chair. Her Bible sat unopened on the table, a ribbon marking last week’s passage from John. She hadn’t moved it since.

Ellie took a sip of coffee gone lukewarm, set it down, and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She wasn’t going. Not this time. Not after the week she’d had.

It wasn’t just that the hot water heater broke. Or that her youngest, Luke, came home from school with a stomach virus that rotated through the house like an uninvited guest. Or even that her boss, after six years of subtle promises, gave the promotion to someone half her age. It was the weariness. The dull ache beneath her ribs. The silence she had heard every night when she asked God, softly, desperately, “Are You still there?”

She used to feel something in worship. She used to cry at the bridge of the third song, lift her hands without thinking, whisper Jesus like she was calling home. But lately, it all felt… hollow. Performative. She was tired of pretending.

A soft knock tapped at her doorframe. Luke stood there in mismatched socks, one eye still puffy from sleep.

“You’re not getting dressed?”

“No, baby. Not today.”

He shuffled in, rubbing his nose. “But it’s Sunday.”

“I know.”

He leaned against her, all warmth and weight and need. “But we always go.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Not this time.”

He was quiet a moment. Then, “But I drew something for Miss Carla.”

She sighed. Miss Carla taught second grade Sunday school. She’d sent soup when Luke was sick and left a card when Ellie’s mother passed. The card still lived in Ellie’s Bible, right before the Psalms.

Luke held up the drawing. It was a stick figure of a woman with long scribbled hair, standing next to a cross. “It’s you,” he said. “You’re singing.”

Her throat tightened.

“You can give it to her next week,” she whispered, brushing his hair.

He nodded and went back down the hall. She sat still. Rain tapped a rhythm on the roof now, not soft anymore, not angry, just… steady.

A part of her wanted to weep. Another part was too dry inside.

By 10:04, she stood at the window, arms crossed, watching a crow shift on the wire across the street. The world looked gray, and she felt invisible in it. Not even forgotten—just… unseen.

She heard the vibration of her phone on the counter. She didn’t move. Let it go. Probably a reminder or a verse-of-the-day notification from that app she never opened anymore.

Then came the ping of a voicemail. Then silence again.

She picked it up twenty minutes later, out of habit more than hope.

It was Carla.

“Hey, Ellie,” her voice said, scratchy with age and kindness. “I know you’re probably not coming today, and that’s alright. I just… felt like I should call. There’s no pressure. Just wanted to say we missed you. And I was thinking about that verse in Isaiah—where God says, ‘I have called you by name; you are Mine.’ I love that. Especially on the days when I feel the most lost. Anyway, just know we’re here. And He’s still holding you. Even now.”

Ellie sat down. Not on purpose—her legs just folded. The phone lay against her heart.

“I have called you by name.”

She didn’t know what she expected from skipping church. Maybe guilt. Maybe relief. She didn’t expect a reminder that God could still find her in her kitchen robe, hair unbrushed, soul splintered, rain tapping like a metronome.

Luke came back, holding a banana and a request to watch cartoons. She nodded.

“I’ll come next week,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone.

Luke smiled and went to the living room.

She stayed on the floor a moment longer. Something inside her—small and slow—stirred. Not a flame. Just a flicker.

It wasn’t about the sermon. Or the music. Or even the people, though they mattered. It was the quiet knowing, the whisper she hadn’t felt in weeks:

You are Mine.

She got up. Not to change. Not yet. But she washed her coffee cup. She folded the blanket. She opened her Bible. The ribbon still rested on John, chapter 10.

“My sheep hear My voice,” it read, “and I know them, and they follow Me.”

She touched the words.

The rain had lightened. The house smelled like toast. Somewhere in the background, a cartoon character laughed.

Ellie sat by the window, not trying to fix her heart, not trying to stir up faith, just… listening. Letting grace come in its own time.

And that Sunday she didn’t want to go, God came to her instead.