Sundays

Sundays seem to be hard days for me. I'm not sure why this is so. It may be that because it is a day of rest, I save up a lot of weariness for that day, and it comes overflowing. It may be because I am at church and surrounded by those who love and care for me, caressed by their concern and reading their worry in their eyes, and spending the morning reassuring them. It may be because of all days of the week I miss my children most on Sundays. It may be because I have the privilege of sitting under the preaching of God's Word on Sundays, and the conviction is carries and the glory it reveals can be my undoing in these fragile emotional days. It may be that it is the end of my little break from the routine of treatment and doctor's visits. For whatever reason, I am noticing a pattern that Sunday afternoons are difficult.

Difficult, but fruitful. The weariness and alienation I feel on Sunday afternoons drives me to the foot of the cross. I can't have been created to be so alone in my failing body in this broken world: God must have a better plan. I instinctively long for it, especially on Sundays. I long for the real Sabbath rest of eternity in the presence of God.

And my dearest of husbands, Dave, seems to sense my need for connection, and spends the afternoon just hanging out with me, holding me, comforting me. I have loved him for more than 28 years, but now I see anew what an amazing gift he is to me from the Lord.

So, after a wonderful morning of worship, followed by a few difficult hours, a good cry and a nap, I am ready to have fellowship in the evening, and to face my week, renewed in the Lord, grateful for His Word and His people, and longing for things to be as God created them to be.