If I could have my fondest wish, every day of the month would have the quiet pace of a Sunday.
The sun would “shine like ribbons through the clouds,”
as Emily Dickinson wrote,
and the church bells would sound
a symphony every day.
I remember the Sundays of my growing up days…
A savory Roast in the oven, the table set with all the lovely linens,
cloth napkins, and fine china… we children dining in our best clothes.
Sunday was the only day our family ate dessert after dinner.
We always went to Sunday School,
and then Worship Services
at the local church
on Sunday morning.
Most Sundays, my mother would invite another family from church
or visitors to come have Sunday Dinner in our home.
And my Grandmother always came.
Now that I am grown with a home and family of my own,
I am embarassed to admit that I can count on one hand the number
of Sunday Dinners
like those of my childhood that I have hosted in my home.
I won’t use my full time job as an excuse for not hosting my own dinners,
for my Mother was a full-time night nurse (RN) and carried her own burden of time constraints.
However, she managed to break through them with flying colors
when one considers the delicious Roast
with Mashed Potatoes and Gravy