Not So Much A Day Of Rest
by Gina Valley
This has been a terrible day.
I like to think of Sunday as the day of rest, but if I’m totally honest with myself, I have to admit that often it’s anything but.
It’s the day when we run late to church, and I feel like a hypocrite for walking into the sanctuary after having screamed at my kids to get their butts in the car, because they were making us late (again), after already having screamed at them to get their butts out of bed, so that they would not make us late (again).
It’s the day when someone or some two or, like today, some three remember big projects that are suddenly due, despite having received the assignment weeks ago.
It’s a day when milk spilled and ran under all of the furniture, the dog jumped on the table and ate the bowl of chili, and our hamster died.
It’s the day when a ten minute assignment triggers a 4 hour full-blown-what-will-the-neighbors-think tantrum.
It’s a day when we realize our family room sofa is home to a giant ant colony.
It’s the day when vital items for outfits for the week are suddenly discovered in bedrooms unwashed, because someone or two or more didn’t bother to bring their laundry to the laundry room by the Friday evening deadline.
It’s the day when I am supposed to drop everything I had planned because a lack of planning on their part somehow is supposed to be an emergency on mine.
It’s day when it’s ever so easy to don my mom-the-martyr outfit and to descend into my dungeon of self-pity to sit on the dirt floor and feel sorry for myself.
I think Sunday should feel like a vacation, a day to recharge, a time to listen to The Still, Small Voice, as it provides me guidance for my life.
Today, it felt like a day in prison.
Getting my skin peeled off.
While being sprinkled with salt and lemon juice.
I might be exaggerating a tiny bit. But, we are out of ice cream, so maybe not.
It’s hard to hear The Still, Small Voice trying to guide me when I’m screaming and my kids are whining and the dogs are barking and my husband is growling.
Sometimes (honestly, a lot of times), the day of “rest” is more the day of “I want to run away from home and lie on a deserted, tropical beach.”
But, I won’t run away. I’ll stick it out. I’ll try to make things better, calmer, smoother.
Besides, I’d probably have to wash a beach towel before I could run away to that tropical beach anyway.
Does the day of “rest” ever make you want to turn it into the day of “run away from home?” How do you keep the calm and diminish the chaos? Shoot me a comment. I’m looking forward to hearing what you think.