Sunday--a day for a different rhythm

 

I'm retired now as most of you know. So I can have endless "free" days when I can sleep in late, do exactly what I want with the day, even do "nothing" with the day if I choose.

Even so, somehow the days have still fallen into a rhythm. 

Monday through Friday are days for appointments and classes--whether art or writing classes, or the classes that I take from Vanderbilt just for the fun of learning. And they are the days for cleaning the house--especially early in the week. Or maybe for a big project--like last summer when I painted the exterior of my house.

But Saturdays, and especially Sundays, have a different rhythm from the week days. When I used to work five days a week, the weekends were often too full of chores and errands. Now though, I can have peaceful, restful weekends. 

Sometimes on Sunday, I go to church, sometimes I don't. I'm not so tied into going as I was when I taught Sunday school, so I get to choose. Usually I do go to church when my granddaughter Tessa visits because I want to give her some good old Christian background, and I generally enjoy church.

Other times I just let Sunday envelope me and delight in it. I sit out on my back screened in porch on the porch swing and notice things more. Like the sky and the trees and the hills and the flowers and the birds and the bugs and the spiders. How I love spider and their intricate webs!

Then I come in and make pancakes or French toast or some other scrumptious brunch. In the afternoon, I may decide to go kayaking or to take a long hike with my dog. And on that float or that walk, I will not be in a hurry. I will notice more. I will see more and hear more and touch more and smell more and be more present in God's nature.

Yes, that's how the rhythm changes on Sunday for me. Don't I allow it to slow down to God's rhythm? 

To end this post, I wanted to share an Emily Dickinson poem with you. Enjoy. And enjoy your Sunday! 

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –

I keep it, staying at Home –

With a Bobolink for a Chorister –

And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –

I, just wear my Wings –

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –

I’m going, all along.