As weekends go, this one was rather dull, I would say. And for that, I’m grateful. It’s not that there wasn’t (isn’t) a lot to do. There was (is). And it’s not to say that a lot didn’t get done. It didn’t. It is to say that we did, I think, have something of a sabbath this weekend.
I didn’t ride anyone to clean their room (except that youngest one and only briefly before she left to go skating Friday night), nor did I get on my own case about the housework that needed to be done. Some did get done. Some didn’t. Most of Saturday, I spent in some one-on-one time with my middle daughter, who rarely hangs with just me. We did the grocery shopping in the morning while one daughter and her sleep-over guest slept and the other daughter watched cartoons while tucked under a blanket on the couch. Then the older one and friend left, the younger one left with another friend, and middle one and I watched television (flipping between a Sell This House marathon and Mrs. Doubtfire) while making cookies and eating dough. It was truly lovely to be with her, and later, as we sat around the roast that roasted while the cookies cooked, we each shared something for which we were grateful, and she said it before I did, that it was great to be just the two of us most of the day. My husband joked about what a “slug fest” we had that day (referring to creatures that move very little, not to fisticuffs), but also agreed that it is sometimes good to just hang.
Sunday was easily as stress-less as Saturday, with a wonderful Association Sunday service followed by some fretful but mostly fruitful fellowship in coffee hour and in lunch with dear friends. Home again to nap, not much, and commune with kittens and make that applesauce we didn’t make Saturday.
It’s fall, the best time of the year, I think. The leaves are turning, and so is the temp, and we have beautiful roasts and homemade applesauce and the time to enjoy these things and each other.
My life is so small. So incredibly … compact. And I know these days don’t linger, and there will be a day when I wish the air was crisp and there were children’s fingers running through the cookie dough, and reason enough to bake cookies, roast meat, and boil apples. There will be days, I’m sure, when I will dream of weekends just as this one and wonder if I appreciated it enough; if I tasted it enough; if I enjoyed it enough. I’m sure I’ll wonder, too, if days like these ever really existed or if they were a figment of my desire to make it seem like I lived the life I thought I did. I’m sure I’ll wonder, too, if my girls will remember weekends such as these with the same hazy, cozy feeling I have, with a warmth that rises not from the always-on oven, but from a grateful, loving heart.
And I hope they remember it with all the warts and whistles–not just the applesauce, but mom’s saucy mouth; that they fought with each other almost as much as they laughed with each other; that they dragged their feet and whined about doing their minimal chores as much as they begged and wheedled for the things they wanted.
At the base of it, though, I hope they remember it as I hope I do: with a sense that there is very little worth doing more than what was accomplished in this small life of ours this weekend. (Except, perhaps, curing cancer, ending genocide, and fighting for justice, but that, well, that we’ll do tomorrow, rested and restored as we are tonight by the food of love and gratitude.)
I wish you weekends such as these, if not each weekend then enough to sustain you now and into your future. And I wish for you what I wish for me: the grace to appreciate the small and the slug-like and the taste of exquisitely normal days such as these.