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As a day of rest, Sunday is long gone

By RONDA RICH

One Sunday afternoon, I was punching addresses into a state-of-the-art hand-held device that my best friend, Debbie, had recently given me.

She had heard me often lament that I needed one to pick up e-mails while traveling, to avoid carrying my laptop.

As I worked diligently on this gizmo that is smarter than I will ever be, I thought back to a dinner conversation the previous evening.

I was dining with friends when talk turned to plans for the next day. It was a normal conversation, one that I’ve had on many previous Saturdays with other friends.

All of us planned to go to church the next morning and then hurry on to our offices to work, to catch up from the previous week and get a jump-start on the upcoming one.

As I fiddled with the newfangled do-dad that will tuck into my purse and keep me connected to the world 24 hours a day, I thought of that conversation. Thought of how many times I had squirmed through church, thinking it was taking longer than it should, then rushed home to work.

Sometimes I even go to early church in order to get more time out of the day. It’s a shame and a disgrace.

When I was growing up, Sundays were reserved for the Lord and family. In my childhood home, there was a fast, strong rule: No work on Sunday. Daddy was especially opposed to yard work on Sunday. I still honor that one.

And, on summer Sunday afternoons, when I am trying to create, I am always miffed by the annoying noise of lawn mowers, weed eaters and blowers that my neighbors are using. Don’t they know that it’s Sunday? A day of rest? Don’t they know that I’m trying to work and need quiet?

Mama was raised in a family where sewing or any kind of handwork was prohibited. “Never start sewing a new dress on Sunday,” she always warned. “It’ll never turn out right.”

One Sunday afternoon when I was in college, Mama caught me knitting on a sweater. Sharply, she reprimanded me. “Put that down right now! It’s Sunday and you shouldn’t be doing any kind of work like that on the Lord’s Day.”

I was just big enough to be too big for my britches. I shrugged and kept on knitting. “Mama, I went to church this morning. So, it’s okay. If I hadn’t gone to church, it would be different.”

That was the beginning of my downfall. From knitting, I steadily progressed down the wayward path.

I took to cutting out and sewing dresses on Sunday. I became a sports writer and covered ballgames and races on Sunday.

From there, it was a short stroll to Sundays becoming another nameless, numberless workday. Now, there’s no time for rest and a minimum amount allotted for worship and family.

I’m ashamed of myself so I’m going to do better. Just as soon as I get this column written and finish fiddling with my new gadget.

[Ronda Rich is the author of “What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should)” and “My Life In The Pits.” She lives in Gainesville, Ga.]