Sunday. The day of rest. Mandated by God. A part of our culture and a part of our childhood, this gentle day has in today’s society been relegated to just another busy day as we sprint through our lives as though we were not really running the marathon that is life. In years gone by families gathered and friends met and lasting romance was seeded on gentle Sunday afternoons. Barbeque meant family and friends rather than football and Facebook. We would gather and connect with the cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and stories were shared and history passed on. Hard working fathers could relax and laugh, and children would find harmless mischief and happy abandon. Mothers, sometimes spending all week caring for children and household, could connect with much-needed adult conversation. It was a time to reflect upon the week that was and make plans for a future full of promise and opportunity.
It is Sunday, and I sit by the banks of the stream, swollen by the recent rain. It speaks to me of spring, and renewal. The sun is out now, and green shoots and emerging leaves spot bits of green here and there to brighten the skeletal chill of winter. Soon the sky will fill with songbirds, and the crickets and frogs and those mysterious creatures that you never see will crowd the air with song melodic in its discord and so loud as to drown out your deepest thoughts.
Our time is like the water in the creek, always moving toward the future, depositing that which has found its place and snatching up that which is still searching, moving it along through the currents and eddies until a destination once again is reached and another wanderer finds his rest as those rested or unprepared are set once more upon their journey.
How important for us, then, when we find a place of rest that we take the time to also prepare, for we all are on that journey through time. The floods will always come. It is always up to us whether and how we prepare.