Sunday Eve

I love Sunday evenings.

I love the slowness that belongs to this pocket of the week.

I love my freshly vacuumed floor rug, and lying down on my soft bed with hair still hot from the blow dryer and my toes stretching out against the smooth, tight feeling of cleanness.

I love the way Sunday evenings feel like newness and a sigh. A fresh beginning and a long look ahead.

I bought myself pink peonies last Sunday. (I gave them to my room-mate when I got home, because I wanted to share their softness and their smell and their bosom-ness that makes them seem so motherly. But secretly, I only shared them because I thought she'd leave them on the dining room table, and then she took them up to her bedroom and I never saw them again until this Sunday . . . they were drooped and wrinkly like old age and wreckage, and I felt momentarily frustrated that sharing seemed such a waste.)

A few Sundays before that, I bought myself a card. (It was actually a Friday afternoon when I bought the card, but that doesn't fit with my Sunday theme. It must have meant most to me on the following Sunday evening, because it's definitely a Sunday evening sort of card.) This is what the card says:

"Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it" (Anne DeLenclos).

And this happens to be the last Sunday evening of the school year . . .

Perhaps my favorite Sunday evening of the whole year.

Lord, bless the work of Your hands. I trust You with this new season. You are Sovereign and very good. Thank You for rest and the Sabbath! Amen.