I never much thought about the two-day week-end being something special. It’s a given to me. As kids, Saturday was our dad’s golf and yard work day. It was our day to help Mother with laundry, ironing, and cleaning around the house. Cleaning must have been the way of the day because we usually ended the day with confession at our local Catholic Church. (Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession. I argued with my sisters and disobeyed my parents. These are my sins and I’m sorry for them.) (Margaret, you know that God commands us to obey our parents. Being nice to your sisters makes God happy and helps your parents. Now, say three Hail Mary’s for penance.) I know the routine by heart because it happened just like that every Saturday for at least 10 years.
The crazy thing is that I really did aspire towards sainthood as a little girl and thought that perfection came easy to adults. I believed that adults didn’t have to worry about disobedience to parents or relationships with siblings. Of course, we just have a whole other set of people, places, and things to trip us into sin, but as a 10 year old, I was sure the adult slide into heaven was smooth.
Sundays were real days of rest. Early morning Mass for Mother and us girls and services at the Episcopal Church for our dad; the weekly roast for dinner; a nap and a car ride around the great metropolis of George West and area country roads where we got our first driving lessons. The day ended with the Disney show and leftovers for supper.
One of the first things Bob and I will do today is pick up my friend who is working as a housekeeper at a bay front hotel. Inconveniently, the buses don’t run until 9 a.m. on Sundays and her work starts at 9:00. She hasn’t had a day off since Spring Break started and won’t for a few more days. She and her boyfriend have hopes for a home of their own and a car at some point. He works 2 jobs to pay bills, working maintenance at a hotel during the days and being a short order cook at nights. So much for the idea of a day of rest.
I find myself feeling lucky by comparison. We are lucky to get this Sunday for play time, rest time, and catching up on house work. I enjoyed my day off yesterday; not going to the office on Saturdays is the norm for me. That means that my house has gotten the quick clean and I’ve fulfilled some of my volunteer responsibilities. I’ve done a little laundry and crafting and set up some spreadsheets for work I want to hit first thing Monday morning. Bob works most Saturdays, but he’s usually off on Sunday.
This morning we shared coffee on the back porch of his house. He got to read the whole paper and check his email on the laptop. We finished one pot of coffee and made in-roads on a second. The day stretched before us like an amusement park. So many possibilities with a nap and fishing on the top of our flimsy itinerary. We did it all with the week’s grocery shopping thrown in all top and a funny movie to wrap it up.
There’s something magic about time spent with someone I love. It is never enough and it passes too fast. Wanting more than I’ve been given is not loving what I got. It somehow diminishes it. And I loved what I got today—a blessed day of rest.