Sunday Mornings At Our House

First Presbyterian Church, Alameda

Even in retirement, Sunday mornings are different from all the other ayems of the week.  For starters, I never know whether to think of them as the last day of the weekend or as the first day of the week.  Both and neither, I guess.

I’m sure if I’d been a lifelong church goer — an eleven-o’clock-in-the-morning-dressed-up-and-nod-to-the-other-congregation-members sort of person — I’d have a different take on Sundays.  But maybe not.  I have a vague memory of my elementary school days in Alameda when I went to Sunday School at the Presbyterian Church every week with my friend Verna.  The walk was a little over a mile each way from my house.

Vespers 2017

I remember learning that “on the seventh day He rested” and I could see by the calendar that Saturday was the seventh day… So why was Sunday the day my folks “slept in” while I was sent off to color worksheets about Jesus and practice for the Christmas pageant?  As I recall, those Sundays ended the week, they didn’t begin it.  No question.

All my working years, whether or not I slept in (usually) or went to church (occasionally) or took a “Sunday drive” (often), I always considered Sunday the last day of my weekend.  Monday began the week — never mind how the calendar was arranged.  And, in the summers in Oysterville, even the Sunday afternoon Music Vespers Services seemed like a fitting end to the week.

Sunday was a day to laze around and read the Sunday paper.  (Remember those big comic sections?)  Sunday was the day for a big brunch or a special dinner — maybe roast beef or fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.  Sunday was the day to think about and mentally prepare for “next week” which, of course, began the next day.

It’s still that way at our house — never mind the calendar.

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