I have found the one activity that without-a-doubt, for-sure, abso-tively falls under acceptable Sabbath past-times: swinging on the front porch. No book, no pencil, no radio – just me. I sit. I push off with my toes. I listen to the hinges creak. I watch the cars race by. I think as little as possible.
I do notice things. The hazy clouds look like they’re sunning themselves at the beach. My spring flowers are dying, but it’s July, so I’ll have to make room for fall flowers soon. The lady across the street is holding her back while she walks to get her mail. She looks older than she did yesterday.
At the end of my Sabbath, I always end up on my front porch swing. By that time, there is really no place else to go. I sit and swing, like I used to do with the kids when they were little. My son learned his colors as he watched the cars drive by. My daughter cuddled with me and let me read books to her.
Sometimes I rock an entire hour, marveling at it all. This swing – a Father’s Day gift – now a Mother’s sanctuary. On the Sabbath I lean into the curve of the swing and let it push me forward and back.
Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”
So does Sabbath’s.
