Eight a.m. and the house is running wild,
As laughter rings out from a small child,
And she's all dressed up in her Sunday dress,
Walking around with a smile, saying: "God bless."
And her blue eyes and blonde little curls,
Fall over her face as she holds out her arms and twirls,
Breakfast is on the table, everyone sits together,
Talking about children, sports, and the weather.
And Grandpa Art holds her over his shoulder and spins,
As she kicks and screams but innocently grins,
"Everybody get in the car, it is time to go!"
Mother calls out, and everyone runs to and fro.
The car is jam packed, with her mixed tape playing loud -
Singing at the top of her lungs, she pretends to have a crowd,
And Grandpa, he plays the drums on his knees,
Aunt Mary; she's got the tambourine with her keys.
The Church bells ring and we all run inside to take our seats,
Shaking hands with the Preacher as he stands and greets,
And he stands in front of everyone, reading aloud,
Watching the happy faces spread out along his crowd.
It's twelve p.m. and the house is still running wild,
But all eyes are on the face of a sweet young child,
And what I love about Sunday morning is just this -
Church and our family coming together to reminisce.
