Closed on Sunday

Closed on Sunday was the rule. I broke it quietly, one deliverable at a time.

This morning, I’m sitting in a phone booth at a coworking space, building a demo for potential investors.
It’s Sunday.

What I used to experience on Sundays was the smell of bacon in the kitchen, mixing with the soft scent of steam and starch—my father pressing his shirt with a careful hand, lathering it in that thick, almost holy substance. In the background, old-school gospel hummed from the speakers, slightly overtaken by my mother’s harmonic undertones and riffs.

It was ritual. It was warmth.
It was a completely different kind of sacred.

Now the gospel’s been replaced by keyboard clicks.
My mother’s voice replaced by the hiss of the espresso machine two doors down.
My father’s starch by this glowing Google Doc.
And still, somehow, I feel like I’m in church.

Not the kind with pews. The kind with deadlines.
And I’m not sure if I’m worshipping or just trying not to disappear.

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The Hidden Church

Work became the church I went to after Sunday.
The one I kept secret.
The one I rinsed and repeated.
No choir. No pastor. Just a laptop and a need to matter.

It started with stewardship. Being faithful over the little, just like I was taught.
Show up early. Stay late.
Don’t just work hard. Work holy.
Make the most of what you’ve been given.
Let your excellence be a form of praise.

But somewhere along the way, I wasn’t just managing resources.
I was managing identity.
Every deliverable was a tithe.
Every email, a hymn.
Every “great job” a hallelujah that kept me going.

And the check?
That was communion.
Not just survival, but spiritual affirmation.
A dollar earned for being a good steward.
A dollar that said: You’re not lazy. You’re not lost. You’re still on your way.

I never meant to turn work into worship.
But when you grow up watching excellence preached like doctrine,
when labor is the love language of every Black household you’ve ever known,
you don’t question the second altar.
You just keep showing up.
Clean. Pressed. Prepared.

And you try to make God proud with your spreadsheets.

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The Conviction

My late uncle was a pastor.

He’d stand in front of the congregation, shoulders squared, the smell of White Diamond perfume still floating in the air, the wooden floor beneath him creaking under the weight of history. And with a voice full of thunder and promise, he’d exclaim:

“I must work the works of Him who sent me...”

And like a call to arms, the congregation would respond.
Not delayed. Not doubtful.
But in unwavering unison:

“...for the night cometh when no man can work.”

I can still hear him. Even now.
Even though I was young.
That final line always hit the hardest.
The night cometh.
It lingered. Haunting and holy.

I think I live with that line in the back of my mind.
Not as fear, but as fuel.
Like I need to earn every hour of light.
Like excellence itself is a spiritual offering.

But lately I’ve been asking. Have I crossed a line?

Because my parents taught me reverence.
Taught me to stay true to God.
Taught me to honor the First Commandment:
You shall have no other gods before me.

And most days, I think I do.
But some days, I wonder if I’ve quietly put the work above the Word.
If I’ve bowed to performance.
Praised the outcome.
Worshipped the potential more than the Provider.

Not out of rebellion.
But out of habit.
Out of survival.

Because I’m not always trying to rebel. I’m just trying to be.
And when I’m building, I feel like myself.
Natural. Present. Focused.
But I also know that being natural isn’t always the same as being spiritual.

I’m learning not to just inherit God, but to experience Him.
Not to just obey what I was told.
But to find Him for myself.
To remember Him in the midst of my pace.
To let the holy back in.
Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s clumsy.

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The Closing Silence

So I keep showing up.
Some days with reverence. Some days with fear.
I open my laptop the way others open scripture.
Not always out of faith, but out of need.

I still hear my uncle’s voice.
Still feel the echo of those wooden floors beneath my feet.
Still wonder if I’m doing the work… or just working.

And maybe that’s the quiet part no one tells you.
That even on the altar, you can start to forget who you're praying to.