Sunday is quiet.
This summer it is the one day I do not have to go in to work at either of my jobs. It has shown me a different side of sabbath than I’ve ever seen before.
It’s raining again. Somewhere saved away in my drafts are musings I’ve made about how, for me, writing seems to most often coincide with the falling of rain. I have yet to determine correlation or causation.
Late afternoon, sipping on port, watching the rain drip from the neighbor’s gutter in time with the rhythm of my heart. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for the past few weeks. Some days are better than others. Some days I have to remind myself to inhale. Time is crystalline and sharp, so I hold my breath as to not cut myself on its corners. I’m holding my breath until time is elastic again. Until it gives itself to bending and is more prone to laughter instead of tears.
But the rain knows. It knows what comes after the falling. Brightness and warmth always push through in the ultimate. Within a future of unknowns there are things we can still count on. Day and night come in turns as their fixed order is the result of a covenant with their Creator.
Quiet is Sunday.