Nearly Missed Monday

Mondays come in a rush these days. A five car pile up to begin the week. Run out the door of the office on Friday night head leaning forward through the hours straight into Saturday. Spring mornings on Saturday are delicious but not savored.

Sunday opens wide the opportunity to practice Sabbath, and there is an attempt. The alarm is set for a later hour and there in lies the deception. More sleep on a Sunday morning will mean a rested Sabbath. When really, a late rising allows for a few extra places at the breakfast table. Grumpy and Slow. They love to come to breakfast still in their pajamas whining that they don’t want to wear the dress you picked out or they can’t find their church shoes.

Escaping the rat race at the end of the week sends me screeching through the weekend. Living life in 2 days instead of 7 makes me resentful, weary, jealous. 

I often find myself on a Monday morning walking my way through the door to work, a little Saturday clinging to my skirt. I brush it off so I can focus on Monday tasks. I think it must be obvious that all of the weekend has stuck and stained my attire, especially when I stutter out an “I don’t know” answer to the “How was your weekend?” question.

There is this bright white moment of delete–or at least that is the way it feels while my mind tries to process where I am, what I should be doing, what I did 24 or 48 hours ago and why does it matter or what of it should I convey to the question poser? The file that I meant to save, the one labeled Your Beautiful Blessed Life, I deleted in a flash–not even comprehending the warning box wanting to double check my rash decisions.

On these Mondays I find myself daydreaming of Sunday things. Spend Sunday nights trying to pull a little Saturday over my shoulder as I tuck into bed. Tuesday tromps her sassy way right on top of Monday, with Thursday skootched in close to Wednesday like teenagers at their first school dance, the first breath of the week comes around lunch time on Friday when the countdown to closing time seems real.

All I need is a personal crossing guard for my days. The one that would hold up the stop sign and give me the scowl if I didn’t heed her warning. Someone to ever so slowly escort me across the threshold of night to morning, of morning to day. 

Today, on my Tuesday that I wish could still be Monday (and truly, who has ever heard that wish wished out loud), I did stop to think of what I miss, what must I add back in to be mindful of my days.

The rest I crave is a Sunday afternoon nap. The sweet luxury of belief that the world will spin and tilt all without me. The understanding that there is enough time. Time to nap and time to decide I don’t need to make dinner, just a snack will do. Time to feel the warmth of the afternoon and the just right cushion of my favorite napping couch. To be in a room with only eastward facing windows so the scorch of afternoon sun doesn’t fall across my eyes or heat the room. Sleep knowing I am loved. I am safe. I can rest and I can continue when the resting is done.

3 gifts almost gone:

a bag of flour when I make 3 loaves of bread

daylight on my hike

the wait for a call

3 gifts redeemed:

the space on my bedroom floor

the white of the bathtub

a friendship that had been on pause


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