Keeping the Sabbath

So, I’ve been doing some thinking and praying about what it really means for a mother to keep the Sabbath.  As a stay-at-home mother to three beautiful, energetic, and often needy children, I struggle over how exactly it is that I can cease my work for a day each week.  On Sundays, I groggily roll out of bed a full hour or so earlier than usual, drag myself to the shower thinking about the coming hour during which I will try to keep the three of them in the pew, quiet, not dropping something loudly which will roll down the sloped floor to the front of the sanctuary, not scream in frustration with the brother or sister who is bugging them, not expose myself while trying to nurse the youngest (Seriously, who can get out of the sanctuary to nurse privately when you’re solo with three young children?), not draw on the hymnal, not throw the cheerios on the floor and then step on them, not draw Pokemon characters when I’d rather have him focusing on the worship service…and on, and on, and on. 

 

After contemplating (read: dreading) all of this, I have to wake them up.  My children are not morning people.  I hear my friends saying that their children wake up happily at 6am ready for the day.  That does not happen in our house (thankfully, since I am not a morning person, either).  I have tried to think of gentle ways of waking them on Sundays, trying to make the day’s happenings more appealing so they’ll want to get out of bed and get dressed.  I have finally resorted to bribery with frozen waffles (only available on Sunday mornings here) and TV while they get dressed. 

 

Needless to say, all of these happenings before 7:45am do not in any way seem to me as though I am ceasing my work.  Actually, it seems an increase of it the vast majority of the time.  In the last year, I also began fasting on Sunday mornings until after the Eucharist, a discipline I have grown to love, but which can also make me more crabby than usual.  But this one thing, this one small thing of purposely not eating or drinking anything until I’ve partaken of THE feast has made my Sunday stand a bit more apart from the rest of my week.  It has helped me to focus on just why it is that I put myself and my children through this nutty Sunday morning ritual.  It’s because I am hungry.  I am hungry for communion with God and the communion of saints.  I am hungry for peace and deep, meaningful worship.  I am hungry for connection with my husband and children.  I am hungry for a slower, simpler life.

 

I am so not there yet.  I have so far to go in this journey. I have a lot to learn about preparing for the Sabbath so that I can actually rest, as God intends as a gracious gift and way of life.  But I figure, if I can continue to change just one little thing at a time, praying for grace and help from God all along the way, I will at least be on the way (The Way?) toward living as God commands us, a people who know that God is God and we are not.  My dirty kitchen will have to wait; it’s a day of rest to the LORD.