Sunday mornings

Yesterday, as I was out running some errands, doing a bit of shopping and picking up prescriptions, I found myself reflecting on Sunday mornings. As I looked back on so many years, those Sunday mornings seemed to be the chronicle of my life.

My spiritual journey is represented by the succession of churches I attended over the years. Unitarian, Quaker, Lutheran, Methodist...various expressions of faith, until at last my faith faltered. As a single person I found Sunday mornings a retreat into the sublime. As a single mother, I often found them to be an exercise in strained patience, as I struggled to get everyone ready and out the door and to make them behave during the service. (I don't miss those days!)

I remember having a definite leisurely ritual on Sunday mornings, with a steaming cup of coffee and my Sunday paper. But gradually that ritual faded, as the internet took the place of my paper.

Sunday mornings often meant excursions...to Dinosaur Valley, to the dog park, to the zoo.

That leisurely feel of Sunday mornings often offered the time to get in touch with loved ones. For many years, I would frequently talk with my friend Donna (also a single adoptive mother) for hours, catching up on the week's events and the latest frustrations with our kids. For a period of time a few years ago, Sunday morning was the time I wrote lengthy letters to my son in prison.

In more energetic days, Sundays would find me on some back road, gathering rocks to build flower beds. Or I would spend long hours working in my yard, planting and mowing and mulching.

And so, what do Sunday mornings represent in my life now? I see a certain emptiness...the loss of faith, the isolation, the lack of energy and motivation. They often evoke frustration with myself, as I see another weekend slipping by with so little accomplished. They are often a time when worries about Gabriel and my mother will not be silent in my mind. Hopefully this is just a phase, another detour on the journey...