Honor the Sabbath

We do some pretty old-fashioned things here in the Case household, or at least "old-fashioned" as far as the modern world's standards are concerned. You know all about our TV-free living, my fierce adherence to breastfeeding, our tough-love discipline tactics, and our preference for staying in, reading books, eating scads of popcorn, and dancing to the tunes of Broadway musicals, courtesy of our record player. We don't typically buy pop, junky snacks/desserts, or pre-packaged food, I hand-write thank you cards when we receive gifts, and we refuse to buy anything (save our house) unless we have cash for it--we don't own a credit card. Shoot, we don't even text message with our one shared cell phone. We're ancient, folks.

But wait! One more thing!

We do as little as possible on Sunday.

Sunday is the Sabbath, and we try to keep it holy. We go to church and hang out with family, and that's about it. No laundry, no housekeeping, no household projects, no bill-paying, no outdoor work, no lesson planning (on Steve's part), nothing like that. Oh, sure, sometimes a little work is required just to function as normal. We're a family of five, folks. We can't afford to be Pharisees. I'll wash up our dishes, wipe down the table, do an emergency load of laundry (as in, how many outfits can Charlotte ruin today?), and just generally do what it takes to keep the household running at a semi-normal clip.

But don't expect to see the bed made. Or the floor swept. And the dog just might, might have to content herself with a less-than-marathon-length walk in the evening because her master just wants to rest.

It's how things are meant to be on Sundays. Even as out-of-touch with the fast-paced world as Stephen and I can be, we still wear ourselves out during the week just living. By the end of our day, after we have worked together to fix dinner, get our kids fed, clean up the kitchen, wrestle kids into a bath, wrestle same kids into beds, fold laundry, pick up toys, walk the dog, take out the trash, take out the compost, take out the recycling (heavens!), and then maybe, maybe take a moment to "How was your day?" each other, we are exhausted. Heaven knows I need a day to chill, and Stephen works his 30-inch butt off, too, I assure you. After six days of exhaustion, we need to make ourselves rest. Without the promise of a day in which our goal is to do nothing, we might possibly explode.

And so our Sundays follow a well-rehearsed and comfortable pattern. We get up a little later than normal, get ready for church, linger at the breakfast table with our chatty sons (newest phrase: "What's that?," although it really sounds like, "Juh-kah" or something else very Klingon-esque), wrangle said chatty sons into presentable clothing while simultaneously attempting to tame their wild hair, drive to church with plenty of time to spare (all while remembering to bring the baby and the fully-stocked diaper bag--it's just miraculous, folks, how God makes these things work out), worship together as a family, leave church to eat somewhere cheap in keeping with Sunday Rule #2: Mom Doesn't Cook, come back home to take naps (another miracle if we all sleep soundly for at least an hour), lounge around the house for awhile after waking up from said naps, and then meander over to my parents' house, where we spend the evening eating, watching TV, and playing with kids. We bathe the kids over there so that when we finally come back home everyone is ready to drift off into peaceful oblivion.

[Side note: You may wonder why I am "working" at writing a blog post on a Sunday night. Typically I would take a break from anything that resembles productive activity on the internet over the weekend, although I am not above surfing for the latest Twilight movie gossip. But tonight Miss Charlotte, who had a killer I Hate the Mexican Food Mom Ate for Lunch Attack earlier in the evening, has decided that she is a big girl who needs to experience the night life. Oh, she likes to boogy. On my lap. At 10:45 at night. So that explains why, even though I don't feel particularly inspired, I am composing this post. Charlotte didn't get the memo about "drifting off into peaceful oblivion."]

We cherish this practice. We long for it throughout the week. We need it as individuals, as a married couple, as a family. We look forward to church, to worshipping together (complete with enthusiastic rounds of clapping from Jack at the end of each song), to sleeping, to hanging out with the kids' grandparents and their uncle and aunt. We gladly cling to God's command to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy, set apart, special.

And here is where I will end this post. I have run out of any more to say, and Charlotte has (I think!) fallen into a deep sleep across my lap. Now I will kiss her sweet face and drift off to sleep myself, to recharge and prepare for another week of living. I pray you can find some time to rest and prepare for the blessed Advent season that so quickly approaches.