There was a time when Sunday’s was a day of quiet, worship and relaxation, and family gatherings. Stores opened later, if they opened at all, church bells rang, newspapers landed on doorsteps, and somewhere in the house, somebody was usually making breakfast. Even the traffic seemed to have somewhere less urgent to go.
I wonder how many people remember Sundays that way.
Of course, not everyone welcomed the slower pace. For children, Sunday afternoons could stretch endlessly, particularly when the weather was too unpleasant for playing outdoors and there was nothing interesting on television. Adults had their own ideas about how the day ought to be spent, and those ideas didn’t always agree. Some considered Sunday a day for visiting relatives, others for attending church, and still others for doing absolutely nothing that resembled work.
What I remember most is that Sunday had an identity of its own. You didn’t have to look at a calendar to know what day it was.
Somewhere along the way, much of that distinction disappeared. Grocery stores began keeping longer hours, shopping became a weekend pastime, and Sunday gradually turned into another opportunity to catch up on everything left undone. There are lawns to mow, errands to run, laundry to finish, and a dozen small obligations waiting for attention before Monday arrives.
I sometimes wonder whether we gained as much as we think we did by making every day equally available for doing things.
These days, I appreciate a Sunday morning that begins without too many expectations. A cup of coffee, a little reading, perhaps some time outdoors before the day grows warm. If there’s a bird calling from the trees, I generally want to know which one it is. If something catches my attention in the garden, I’ll stop to investigate. I’ve learned that a surprising amount of life goes unnoticed when we’re too occupied with getting somewhere else.
That’s not to say every Sunday needs to be peaceful. Some of the best ones are spent with friends, around a crowded table, or wandering through a place you’ve never visited before. I remember Sunday mornings filled with good conversation, long drives, and unexpected discoveries. There’s pleasure in those things too, and I’ve never believed that rest must necessarily mean sitting still.
Perhaps what makes Sunday worth preserving isn’t a particular tradition or activity, but the opportunity to spend a few hours without feeling that every minute must accomplish something.
I like the thought of a day that gives us permission to linger over breakfast, finish a chapter in a book I am writing, call someone we haven’t spoken to in a while, or simply sit outdoors and watch the morning unfold. There will always be work waiting, and most of it will still be there tomorrow.
When I think about the Sundays of years past, I don’t particularly miss the closed stores or the lack of entertainment. What I miss is the understanding that one day of the week could belong to something other than our obligations.
Maybe we can’t bring back the Sundays we remember, and perhaps we wouldn’t want every part of them anyway. But we can still decide what to do with the hours we’re given.
So, where do Sunday mornings find you?
At the kitchen table with a second cup of coffee? In the garden, checking on what has grown since yesterday? Sitting beside the water, visiting family, attending church, or enjoying the luxury of having nowhere in particular to be?
Wherever you happen to spend yours, I hope there’s at least a little time for something you enjoy.
Deborah