I believe that Sunday Mornings are Sacred
I believe that Sunday mornings truly are sacred. On Sunday mornings, I experience all the good that any God, could want for me. I become renewed. I rest in the safety and security of the people I care deeply about. I find temporary respite from my fears about global warming, the war in Iraq and other ills. I listen to myself. I listen to others. I breathe.
But here’s the rub; I’m not at church, I’m at home. A home made up of myself, my spouse, two children, two cats, a live in au pair, and a happy-go-lucky golden retriever. Sundays, oh sacred Sundays, are the rare day where our mornings are spared a relentless cycle of errands, dentist appointments, football practices, veterinarian visits, school drop offs, play practice, play dates, oil changes, teacher conferences, art lessons, community events and (oh yeah) work.
Instead, Sunday mornings are our haven, our shelter from the storm that is modern life. They begin softly. The cats and I stir at dawn; we stretch lazily and creep downstairs leaving the dog, kids, and husband behind to snore in their beds. I move about quietly in the kitchen, hungry only for strong tea and Weekend Edition on National Public Radio. Once satiated, I return to bed giddy with the promise of reading the entire Sunday Paper. Eventually the children awake, climb into bed with us with their icy toes, snuggle, steal the covers, borrow the comics, jiggle their dad awake, squeal through the inevitable tickle fest, get bored, leave, and come back again. After the second (or third) leaving, my husband and I lock the door. He, a night owl and I, an early bird, find it hard during the week to be fully present for each other. This time, this sacred time, allows us to connect with each other in ways more meaningful than the typical work week allows.
Around noon, ‘lunchfast’ becomes a feast of blueberry waffles or banana pancakes. Without the pressure of the daily grind, no-one really cares when the syrup spills and the puppy’s paws, tacky from stepping in it, stick to the floor. Instead, we laugh. I don’t even fuss when our 11 year old son makes his own omelet and more egg lands on the cook top than in the skillet. Because I am renewed, I can see the Forest (the development of independence and responsibility) through the trees (one more mess to clean up). I even remember to take my vitamins.
I admit, sometimes I feel guilty that we aren’t doing the church thing. Maybe we should be hustling out the door on Sunday mornings. God knows (no pun intended) that enough people do. Every now and again, I envy their efficiency to have clean and ironed clothes, cars that look like they just went through the car wash and pledge cards all filled out. Then I remember how Forest Church, a Unitarian Universalist minister, defined the sacrament of communion. Church wrote that communion is any act that draws people together for good. Well, our family revels in good, and goodness, on Sunday mornings. We roll around in the good. We cook in the good. We snuggle in the good. We laugh in the good. We commune in the good. We stick our paws in the good. Should we bust up our Sunday mornings to go to church? No way. We are living the sacred right here at home.
If you enjoyed this essay, please consider making a tax-deductible contribution to This I Believe, Inc.