I used to think dressing up on Sunday was overrated. Too much trouble for too short a time. My mom and I would always fight over what I would wear.

But Grandma Sally – she always came to church looking her best.

She had her hat, her shiny, colorful heels, her best dress, necklace, earrings, and you could smell her sweet perfume before you saw her.

She always came to church on Sunday like a shining, beautiful princess.

Sunday was the one day when she wasn’t defined by her job, her age, her struggles, or anything else. On Sunday, she was Sally: daughter of God.

And she dignified that identity by coming to church, dressed to the nines.

She was the choir piano player. We didn’t always have a choir, but we always had her.

She played, decked out in the flower print and lace until her eyes couldn’t see the music anymore and she had to play the notes from memory.

She played until she was too old to come to church.

Grandma Sally always came to church in her Sunday best. She was telling everyone that she is Sally, beloved and adored daughter of God.

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