An Open Letter to Sunday

Dear Sunday,

Good morning. I hope you are found by many as a resting place. In these days all strung together with no commas or periods may we all find you nestled between parentheses, protected from pandemics and quarantines. Even God took a breather from His creativity and sat with you for twenty four hours.

It is said separation makes the heart grow fonder. Well, I’ll try to separate you from all other days, to give space for reflection and gratitude for another week passed, and take heart for the God given days ahead.

I know you’ll tell me it’s not about you, but the You beyond you. I get it. But sometimes without any given Sunday, I would carry over the incompleteness of Saturday’s chores without a blink. Weeding. Vacuuming. You know, the circulars of human existence. Mow the lawn…again? I did that last week. Throw in another load of wash rags…redundant.

If I think of you as a metaphor as opposed to micro-phor, I might be able to gain perspective on the rhythms of space-time contingencies and such. Sure, many people pile in and pull out of their driveways and head to church because you showed up. Not these days.

If I had the memory capacity to remember each encounter with you from my birth through all these fifty-eight years, I might be able to quantify and qualify the overarching tapestry of you.

For now it seems like a gut feeling. Like the subtle emotion rising as the sun pastes the shadow of the blinds across the floor. Like Debussy hovering over my dad’s nap. There was a time when a poem was poured into a church service like fine wine, and I partook.

At any rate, you, Sunday, seem always to be in italics, like a speed bump mid-sentence. Highly underrated though. Monday mornings get a groan out of most of us. I thank God for Friday, but you oh, Sunday, you’re different. You draw my attention in your beauty, your invitation to transcend beyond and through to your Creator. At least that seems to be your calling.

By inference, you are a kind of light which illumines everything I see. Sun-day. You are a clarion call, as is the sun. A call to rise as you do in our inner selves, to not only underline you, but to see what underlies you. To drop everything and follow your lead to rest as commanded. To lift empty hands and open hearts to the God you represent so vividly.

This song by Phil Keaggy came to mind. If you have time, close your eyes and rest and listen.

The Maker of the Universe, Lyrics. By Phil Keaggy

The maker of the universe,

as man for man was made a curse.

The claims of law which he had made,

unto the uttermost he had paid.

His holy fingers made the bow

that grew the thorns which crowned his brow.

The nails that pierced his hand were mined

in secret places he designed.

He made the forest whence it sprung

the tree on which his body hung.

He died upon a cross of wood

yet made the hill on which it stood.

The sky that darkened ore his head

by him above the earth was spread.

The sun that hid from him its face

be his decree was poised in space.

The spear which spilled his precious blood

was tempered in the fires of God.

The grave in which his form was laid

was human wrought his hands had made.

The throne on which he now appears

was his from everlasting years,

but a new glory crowns his brow

and every knee to him shall bow.

The maker of the universe

The maker of the universe

The maker of the universe


From the album Way Back Home by Phil Keaggy.

This is one of my favorite Easter songs.