I had an organ/piano teacher when I was about 10 years old who introduced me to a phrase – “It lasted longer than a month of Sundays.” I remember laughing, but not because I understood exactly what she meant. I laughed because I thought I might have a glimmer of what she was talking about. I wonder now if I really had any inkling at all. I wonder if I understand it now.
What would my life be like if every day was a Sunday. . .everyday for an entire month? Thirty days of Sundays all joined together for some unknown reason. I guess perspective is all, and of course it greatly depends on what you do with your Sundays, and if you would decide to spend each of those Sundays in exactly the same way as you do your ordinary weekly Sunday.
I have sort of a love/hate affair with Sundays. Mostly love. There are things that happen on Sundays that are very special to me and that have a way of lifting me up out of my weekly state of being. The hate part enters in with how I end up using the balance of my day. I have no guilt over wasting time, there is always plenty to do. I read, listen to music, and write, write, write, watch television or movies, or lie in bed longing “to sleep, perchance to dream.” But it seems like on Sundays Hubs and I spend more time apart than we do any other time of the week. This is certainly not his fault, nor is it really mine. It’s just the way things are, and neither of us have sought out a way to change our routine, and I wonder if we want to? Isn’t that odd? The thing is, we love being together, yet we don’t seek out ways in which to do it.
My husband works very hard. His retirement from his 24/7/365 job of being a pastor has not changed the amount of work he does, only the type. He is happy in what he does and is able to accomplish, and I am unceasingly proud of who he is and what he does. And, I wholeheartedly support his desire and need for a nap every Sunday afternoon after Sunday’s noon meal. I, on the other hand do not work hard. I do the things I love, but all the things I love are accomplished in isolation. Thirty-seven years (almost) of marriage admittedly create patterns of relationship into which couples often find themselves following relentlessly, and unconsciously.
So, today I have gone about doing the things I do on my good-health days, or my sort-of good-health days. I attend a glorious worship service, sing with a choir of which I grow more fond and proud each week, find myself weeping and smiling in equal measure, and then leave, often emotionally exhilarated or exhausted or both. Today we celebrated Confirmation Sunday in our church in which we were all witness to a large number of young people confirming the vows that were made at their baptism. It was moving, incredibly moving, and I wept as these young people made commitments to serve Jesus Christ by their prayers, their presence, their gifts, their service, and their witness. At the same time you know in your heart that despite all their best intentions, some will fall away from that commitment – as many do, even as I did; but there is the joy of knowing that once that seed is planted in their hearts, it holds within it the possibility of extraordinary growth. A growth that will move them in directions they could never have imagined. Promises are so powerful; the beauty of a promise fulfilled is incomparable.
And so here I sit with Sonya, typing out a post for this Sunday that has left me in a quandary about my life in general. I am responsible for my life. I am responsible for living now, and not regretting the past nor speculating about the future, but living fully now. And I guess the thing I most wonder is if writing and photography are what I should do with my life. There is no doubt that I love them – intensely. There is not a doubt in my mind that they have become extremely important to me, on a level that falls just beneath God, family, friends, and enemies. (That enemies are on my list of loves is a subject for another time.)
Now I see I have rambled on in my incoherent style for close to 800 words, so I will stop, with these questions for you to ponder: Are you doing with your life what you planned, are you in love with what you do, and if you have a month of Sundays, would they fly by, or crawl endlessly?
I wish you all enough. . .