You Know What’s Crazy, I’ll tell you what’s Crazy™
Sunday Morning.
Easy. Peaceful. Calm.
It’s a day like no other.
It’s the 7th day.
Sunday is the signature on the bottom of a check that endorses a life rich in possibilities.
Sunday is the day of rest.
Sunday is a warm pillow that has just come out of the dryer.
Sunday is so exclusive, even God rejoices in its arrival.
You’ll never hear God shout, “Hey everyone, Happy Hump Day.”
Sunday is just like Monday, minus the anger, angst or honking horns.
Sunday is special.
It’s a chance to breathe, to ruminate, to explore the infinite boundaries of forever.
To some it’s the Sabath, a day to get on your knees and atone for your sins.
To some it’s a lazy day to turn the to do list over and read a book.
Sunday Funday is a much needed celebration.
It lives at the end of the calendar, when Saturday has vomited it’s stupidity into the cosmos and the calm of the new dawn approaches.
Sunday is a time to reflect, a chance to unwind, decompress.
Sunday is that special day, like a cricket’s song outside the window.
It’s a rustling of a tree branch above the roof before the sun has climbed above the horizon.
Sunday is easy and smooth, like a baby bird’s chirp from somewhere above.
Sunday is no expectations.
Sunday is the alarm on mute.
Sunday is no texts from the boss, no bang on the door from solicitors, no industrious wail of the lawnmower battalion at 6:30 am.
The phone is set to silent.
The TV is off.
The sound of a squirrel scurrying across the shingles prompts thoughts of tiny forest creatures foraging in relative harmony.
Sunday is a fluffy pillow inviting a few more winks.
Sunday is the smell of Costa Rican coffee, aromatically floating up the stairs in a hypnotic rainbow of caffeinated delight.
Sunday is knocking at the door, poking through the blinds, a friendly tap on the shoulder that the day is ready when I am.
Sunday is cool jazz, filling the amphitheater of existence, replacing the beer soaked honky tonk of a frenzied Saturday night.
Sunday is dogs calm, on the floor, staring at me with one eye open.
It’s Sunday. How do they know?
Monday is a carnivore’s carnival of necessity to bark and beg and howl at the sound of a distant bus engine.
Dogs have no calendar.
They are governed by the tick tock of their hunger, and the scent of the moon in a bright blue sky.
Dogs should not know Monday from Wednesday from Sunday.
Yet they do.
Sunday brings canine equanimity.
Sunday’s wood floor is cooler, more relaxing, more satisfying than the same spot 24 hours from now.
Every day on four paws and a wagging tail should be the same as every other dog day of existence.
But the power of Sunday is universal.
Sunday is Sunday, even in the wild kingdom.
The dogs know they’ll be fed, they know they’ll be pet, they instinctively understand that Sunday will unfold evenly, calmly, like a layer of chocolate icing spread deliciously over life’s birthday cake.
Sunday is a day to bury your snout in your dog bed and catch a few more ZZZ’s.
Outside the window, in the still cool morning, the crickets warble, their violin crescendo undulating like a maestro’s wand conducting a community symphony.
Do the crickets play their tune every morning? Or does the solitude of Sunday allow me to hear the fragments of life we miss those other 6 days?
Somewhere beyond the curtain, I hear a car door shut. I hear a woman’s voice. Her muffled tone is hurried. I know this is the early church crowd.
I don’t have to look out the window. I imagine the woman in a blue dress, that has been hanging in a dry cleaning bag for a week. My mind’s eye sees her in a freshly pressed white blouse. There are ruffles around her collar, old fashioned, like her grandmother wore to church. Her hair is short, perfect. She styles it to look like it doesn’t matter, but in reality, it matters tremendously.
As she hustles her family into the van, I know that her heart is ready to receive the Lord.
It’s Sunday and it’s her day.
It’s Sunday and It’s God’s day.
It’s Sunday and it’s my day.
I close my eyes and listen as the church bound van drives to the stop sign, turns the corner and disappears.
I wonder if God’s power is stronger at church than it is right here in my bed.
Does God give my neighbor extra time in cloud sanctuary at the end of this enigmatic journey because she drove 5 miles to thank the Lord?
Inside my cathedral of covers and warmth, I don’t have to worry about what time it is? I don’t worry about making that yellow light up ahead. I don’t have to worry if my tithing in the collection plate will make the Almighty happy.
In my closed eyes cathedral, I can see forever, into a sparkling array of darkened universe.
With my eyes shut on this Sunday morning, my thoughts are as deep as a nebula cloud in a universe in another dimension.
I feel like God is hovering over the bed, filling the room, like a warm, omniscient presence.
I’m swimming inside a wave, that is filled with air and contentment.
Do I need to iron my blouse to experience this moment?
With eyes shut, and the quiet of a Sunday morning, I travel through the stars, through the vast space of beyond.
At the end of the tunnel, there is a light.
It’s the calm of something bigger, greater, supremely powerful.
It’s the creator of Sunday.
Here in this interminable arena without beginning or end, there is a harmonic buzz created by stars igniting in a new solar system of existence.
Somewhere in this ethereal dream theater, where the light is bright and soothing, I feel safe, like that memory of mother wrapping me in a warm blanket and rocking me to sleep.
Here in God’s special Sunday place, there is a lasting stillness of thought, where a single beat of a bird’s wing is captured in a timeless moment of realization.
God has created this moment, this day. It is his gift to you, to me.
Sunday is his Sabath.
Sunday is his Funday.
As I open my eye, the twinkling stars and vast universal treasure map dissolve. The ceiling fan is gentle above me. It creates a subtle breeze that reminds my skin to wake up and be alive.
I stare at the ceiling, beyond the whirling fan blades. The mirage of brown wood spins through my visage as I stare, dreaming, into the blue hue of the ceiling beyond.
I wonder what time it is.
Then I remember, that I don’t care.
I listen to a car motor slowly up the street.
Where are they going, I think?
Church? The store? A hike?
The array of possibilities on this restful morning are limitless.
Sunday is all things to all people.
Today, it is an opportunity to fill the white void before me with the rhythmic patter of calculated thoughts that are as unique to me as my DNA.
Sunday is the printed word, dancing on a field of white, flowing to the edge of the screen, like a tide pushed by the moon.
What will the sentence say next?
The story has yet to be written.
Sunday.
All day long.
Life’s Crazy™