We've got a backslider in the house. That's bad, of course.

Joanna and I were raised in go-to-church-every-time-the-door's-open families. We still pretty much abide by that philosophy. We're compelled by that little-known Bible verse: "Whenever two or three are gathered together in My name, you should be there."

Not that I'm perfect on this score.

My first scandalous Sabbath sin occurred when I was six or seven. Somehow, I convinced my mother I was sick on Sunday morning, and she let me skip church and stay home, where I read the funny paper, and played games.

I can't tell you why I did it. Maybe it was pediatric rebellion. Maybe it happened after the Sunday of Triple Jeopardy, when Daddy had to call me down from the pulpit, Mother had to come sit behind my friend Jay and me, then I really "Got it" when I got home. Or maybe I just wanted to see what happened outside the walls of our little church from 9:45 to noon on Sunday morning.

Those were the days when I just knew grownups could read my guilty little mind. I really didn't enjoy myself too much, because I was sure Daddy would get fired if the deacons found out I skipped church.

That was more than 35 years ago, and I never confessed. Until now. (If you see Mother and Daddy's copy of this paper before they do, hide it.)

That pretty much did it for me until college, when I occasionally skipped Sunday school.

But the applies didn't fall far from the tree, as they say, and our family always has known Sunday is church day. It's not just a rule. Church is where we want to be. After all, the good Lord told us to assemble together. We find refreshment from worship. And, we enjoy studying the Bible and "fellowshipping."

That's what makes our little "problem" vexing. One among us seems to despise Sunday morning. She sulks around the house while everybody's eating breakfast, getting dressed and watching the first few minutes of "Meet the Press." She's disdainful of our preparations and disrespectful of our observance.

Worst of all, she crawls under the bed when it's time to leave.

I've never figured out exactly how our dog, Betsy, knows it's Sunday. But that's the only time she tries to hide when we're trying to leave.

Some would say she's demon-possessed - that her diabolical deed is the handiwork of Satan, attempting to make our family late for church.

I personally believe Betsy's a Seventh-day Adventist dog. She rests on Saturday and thinks Sunday morning should be family time and an occasion for chasing birds, not singing hymns.