I eye my brother on the men’s side of the church, pass the line of women, slide into my pew, and remove the scarf over my hair. Daniel shuffles in and whispers, “Let’s go.” With the sound the Coptic hymn, we dash out on our weekly mission. We pass latecomers, smile at mothers and babies, and dodge familiar faces, racing to get the best “orban.” 

With a crowd already waiting, I worry that we won’t be so lucky this week. The smell of the freshly baked bread lingers and finally the volunteer hands me more than one piece. I grab an old Egyptian newspaper to wrap the warm orban and deliver it to Mom for our weekly routine. 

Daniel and I find our parents with the usual group of family friends. The group 

instinctively moves towards the door and the Sunday afternoon light is an overwhelming contrast to the dim, incense-filled church. With no need for instructions, everyone chats along our usual route to the nearby Starbucks. 

At Starbucks we head to the long table in the corner next to the window. My parents and their friends speak in a combined Arabic-English, and my brother and I easily follow their conversations. I'm always amazed hearing about their older kids’ lives, remembering how they once joined us at Starbucks on Sundays, and now hearing about their college degrees or their own children. 

This is our family. We’re not related by blood, but with all the time we’ve spent together on Sundays like these and the memories we’ve created, it feels like we are. Starbucks after Sunday mass is a timeless tradition; my family has grown, even though the actual group has shrunk with each child growing up and starting their own adventures. We’ve grown up together. 

Even as a young adult, I still cherish the Sundays I spend with my extended family. Going to church does not only emphasize my commitment to God, but I am also reminded of the wonderful support system in my church community.