Sunday's Coming

"I think we created a monster," my mom whispered to me one Sunday after church. She had asked Brett and me to Sunday dinner that night. And when it comes to cooking, my mom's no slouch, let me tell you.
Still, Brett hesitated.
I gave him the evil eye.

But to no avail.
Nothin' doin'.
Today was Sunday.
He was going home to take a nap, watch some football, maybe...putz.
But, no, he was not going out.

And to think we had done all of this to him...

When Brett and I were dating/engaged, we would go to church and then head to my parents' house for some R&R.
Pool.
Steaks on the grill.
Maybe some reading.

At first, all the sitting still nearly drove him mad. Sunday, to him, was a day for running errands, fixing stuff, hitting the grocery store.
Bachelors.
What do they know?

So when he started hanging out with my family, he thought all this 'resting' was wasting time. But then...
...it started to grow on him. And by the time we said, "I do," he was a Sabbath convert. Big time. Which is why he politely but firmly declined my mom's invitation to Sunday dinner.

Harumph.

And for the past 24 years,  Sunday as Sabbath has taken a firm root in the Adams' home.
He likes it like that.
And so do I.

We love our church, and we love our church family.
But after we've gotten in some fellowship time, he and I are both sneaking glances at the clock and edging towards the door.
"Fenuccis!" he yells, and all the shorter Adams' (and the taller ones, too) start heading for the Blue Whale.
And the Blue Whale starts heading for home.

Home.
That's where Sabbath, properly observed, is spent. At least in our family.
If we're spending Sunday with you, and you are not related to us, it's because we like you. We really, really like you.

We pile into the kitchen, and it's a flurry of kicked-off shoes, dropped purses, ditched Bibles, and "I'm hungry!" We eat enough to get the little guy happily off to nap time and then...rest.
Book pages fluttering.
Disney movie going upstairs.
Afghans and football and...quiet.

Then, my favorite part of Sunday: dinner.
No matter what we've been doing the rest of the week, how many meetings or practices or activities or ...or...or...Sunday arrives. And so does Sunday dinner. It's the one night we're guaranteed to have everyone at his place. Candles. Stemware. Yea, even sometimes cloth napkins (that is, when I have failed to replenish the paper variety).  This is serious business, people.

And there, around the table, family happens.
Sermon talk.
Laughter.
Foodie observations.
And while we tend to guard family mealtime during the week, there's just something about Sunday dinner that makes us all linger a little longer around the table.

When we were married, the pastor exhorted us to be faithful to establish traditions.
We listened.
Sunday is one of our most foundational traditions.

This past Sunday, dinner lasted a little longer.
A cold front had blown in, so we piled the dinner dishes in the sink and moved to the backyard.
We lit a fire in the fire-pit; we pulled out lawn chairs; we roasted marshmallows and drank hot cocoa.

The troubles of the day and the worries of the week faded in the moonlight.
We told stories.
We did screaming yellow zippers,
and Cincinnati fire kites.
We laughed and chattered under the full moon.

Sunday is the day we join in the fellowship of the saints and corporate worship and the preaching of the Word.
But Sunday is also the day that reminds us that we can rest.

Rest is a privilege.
Rest is for those whose trust is in the Lord.
Rest is a good gift from a Great Redeemer.

No matter how crazy or chaotic or fragmented or worrisome the other six days of the week can be...
our family celebrates the grace of rest on Sunday...
...because we need the reminder not just of weekly rest
but of the eternal rest that was secured for us at the Cross.

And Sunday has a way of doing that.