Sundays

Sundays had a rhythm and routine.

A typical Sunday was going to church, taking a drive, probably a nap would be squeezed in, and then we’d work a bit getting ready for Monday. This time of year, basketball was part of the weekend if not the day. 

About this time (4-5), Ron would say, “You know what I’d like for dinner?” I could rarely guess it correctly, but it almost always hit the spot. It was never healthy, but it was good. Reynolda Village Tavern’s patio was a frequent haunt. 

Sundays have morphed into a new rhythm and routine. 

I haven’t been to church in ages. I want to go, but I’ve mentioned before that it’s incredibly emotional. Just thinking about it is silly emotional. I’ve checked out new churches around me thinking that going back anywhere that was a WE place might be the trigger. I can tell you about the churches around me, but, so far, I just haven’t made it.

Naps are still a thing. Dinner may or may not happen, but the chances are good I’ll watch a movie. Basketball is a lot like church. 

Since I’ve been striving for a new level of honesty this last year, a rawness that I would never have considered embracing before, what I want (way down deep in my heart of hearts) is a return to the Sundays when Ron was here. What I want is to wake up and find this has all been a dream. What I want, is to hear him say, “You know what sounds good for dinner tonight.” What I want is to fall asleep and hear him breathing by my side. 

Since that isn’t going to happen, I’ll shift once again into another mode. Hope.

I’m hoping, with the arrival of spring’s longer and warmer days, that Sunday will transform into something else . . . walks along the trails, painting the walls, reading on the deck, companionship with someone someday. 

And yes, church. I hope to walk through the doors, sing, and listen intently without fear of falling apart. 

I’m hoping for a new rhythm. A new routine.