Today was a holiday. Holiday. Holy Day.
Officially, it was a holy day of obligation, which means I should’ve been at church bright and early, mindful of the children tripping over one another at the Easter egg hunt, and sharing communion with my church family. But for various reasons I didn’t make it there this morning.
As a child, a holiday to me meant a mindless disregard for routine. Pleasurable abandonment. New clothes quickly wrinkled and soiled with dabs of chocolate, or even backyard dirt. There were no obligations beyond showing up for dinner, and getting back in the car to go home when the fun was over.
Today was the kind of holiday the grownup me adores. A rare sort of day. The work I did was effortful, but love-ful, too.
It was a meal well-prepared and well-shared. Music played. A garden explored. My mom’s laughter. My children’s smiles. Sunshine.
Sanctification of my life. Amen.