I love Sundays. A day of rest, repair, and reflection. A day for preparation, too. In the morning we worship at the church down the street. In the afternoon, we work pleasantly, quietly for hours, taking long walking breaks. Sundays here are omelets and coffee and yogurt parfaits. Long runs and essays and acoustic sounds.
On Sundays I look forward. A psychology adviser once advised me to map out my weekly assignments and commitments every Sunday so nothing will catch me by surprise. Sometimes I do this. On Sundays I like to make my grocery lists and do my laundry loads. Sometimes I bake a tray of maple honey granola. Usually I tidy up my room. Sunday is my day of hope, closing the door on the last week and the mess it was.
And on Sundays I look back. And I see the silliness of self selection and the simplicity of icing a hundred cinnamon rolls for our new freshmen in Rusk. I see the messy gray-ness, too. The health center visits, phone calls and frustration.
Thank God that Sunday is above all a day of grace. Grace for last week, hope for this one. Sunday is like dawn, holding together slivers of fading darkness and glimmers of coming light.
Psalm 46. God will be with her when morning dawns.