Church in Pajamas

It’s Sunday morning, and we didn’t go anywhere.
We woke up slow, just the two of us tangled up in warm blankets and the leftover quiet from sleep. My son rolled over, still half-dreaming, and mumbled something about juice. The sun was coming in through the blinds, and I just laid there for a moment—completely still—before the demands of the day began.

I didn’t have it in me to get us both dressed, packed, and out the door. And honestly, I haven’t had it in me for a while.

We’re not in a season where church looks traditional. It doesn’t involve a sanctuary or stained glass or a nursery with friendly volunteers. It doesn’t come with silence or stillness or the ability to keep a toddler seated for longer than two minutes. I used to feel so guilty about that — like I was doing something wrong by not braving the rows of pews and polite looks while my son screamed during the second reading. I thought that “real” faith meant making it work. Showing up anyway. Getting it together.

But I don’t think that anymore.
Not right now.

This morning, my son stayed in his little dino pajamas. I stayed in sweatpants. I turned on the livestream of a quiet Mass I follow from back home. I couldn’t hear every word of the homily over the crashing of toy trucks and the crinkling of a granola bar wrapper, but I caught pieces. I caught the Scripture. I caught the rhythm of the familiar prayers. I caught a moment for myself.

Goose played beside me while I whispered the Nicene Creed and tried to believe every word, even the parts that are still hard to hold.

He climbed onto my lap during the consecration.
He asked me for water right in the middle of the Lamb of God.
He giggled and leaned his head against my shoulder, and I held him while the priest lifted the host.

I’ve never felt so far and so close to the sacred in the same moment.

Because it doesn’t feel like “church,” not the kind I was raised to understand. There’s no choir. No collection basket. No familiar faces in the rows ahead of me. Just me and my son and the small, holy attempt to make space for God in the middle of everything else.

And I believe that counts.
I believe that presence is worship, even when it’s imperfect.

I think about how often Jesus met people where they were — in their homes, in the streets, in the middle of their mess. He never asked them to get polished first. He didn’t require silence. He just showed up and asked them to follow. And that’s what I’m doing in my living room every Sunday. I’m following the best I can — even if I’m barefoot and holding a toddler who won’t stop asking to watch Cocomelon.

Sometimes I cry during communion — not because I feel holy, but because I feel tired and unworthy and yet still somehow held.
Sometimes I pause the livestream halfway through and finish it later during nap time.
Sometimes I don’t make it to the end at all.

And still — I know God is in it.

I believe the Holy Spirit is not bound to a building.
I believe my living room can be a sanctuary.
I believe that every mama who sings along to worship while folding laundry, who streams Mass while rocking her baby, who whispers prayers while wiping down counters — is doing something sacred.

Because church is not just where we go.
It’s how we show up.
It’s choosing softness over shame.
It’s carving out five quiet minutes in a loud life.
It’s letting God into the crumbs, the cartoons, the fatigue, and the effort.

So if you’re like me — if your church today looked like a messy living room and pajamas and worship music playing over the hum of everyday life — I just want to say: it still counts.
You’re still in it.
You’re not less holy because your Sunday didn’t involve heels and hymns.

You are worshiping in the way this season allows.
You are doing beautifully.
And God sees it all.