Time is on My Side

Some days unfold slowly, taking their time to reveal themselves.  Today was one of those days, certain in its quiet unraveling, and I was content to be patient with it, gently running my fingers across each crease of change.

I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets.  As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me.  A mumbled word, escaped from a dream.  The contented release of breath.  A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.

I took my time getting up.  And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.

A Sunday morning almost always is magical.  Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.

This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!).  And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.

You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together.  Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation.  And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.

Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction.  "I teach 8th graders," she explained.  My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.

And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving.  Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it.  It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive. 

All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together.  Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.

That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.