I love Sunday.
We wake up and I put sacred music on and generally make something warm: baked french toast or German pancakes or oatmeal with half n' half, brown sugar and pecans.
We get to go to church.
I get to sit by Mr. C and feel his arm around my shoulder or hold his hand.
Sometimes we crack up at stuff that the children say aloud, trying to stifle our breathing and moving shoulders and restore reverence.
I feel enriched by words from others' souls, and by the deep, penetrating, truths that we talk about there.
There are a family of people there that I dearly love and it's meaningful to hear how the gospel works in their lives, how they notice it day-by-day.
I love the raw sharing that takes place.
Then we come home.
Yesterday afternoon I was picking up the getting-ready-to-go-to-church frenzy and overhearing Mr. C. talking on the couch with the children. Mia on his lap, the boys on either side.
They wanted story after story about when he served as a missionary.
The house was quiet, and all I could hear was their discussion.
It did this all day.
And while it did that, we did this.
Isaiah helped me make dinner, cutting the carrots and celery.
Mimi sat on the counter by me while I peeled carrots to give to Isaiah.
Benji read to his dad, who was feeling under the weather.
I made homemade wheat noodles and rolled them out on the counter, slicing them into thin strings.
And then we ate.
Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup
Spinach and lettuce tossed with sliced peppers, tomatoes, green onions and feta cheese with a balsamic viniagrette
Artisan bread, hot with melted butter
The fire was warm and we chatted about this and that.
Then we began our new chapter book.
After they were down, Mr. C. and I talked in front of the fire for a long time.
Snow falling out.
Peace, quiet and warm within.
I love my time with him.
Sunday is one of my favorite days of the week.
(And, I like this article from Time magazine.)