Monday is not my Sabbath day, but this past Monday, I had the most Sabbath-y three hours I’d had in ages.
I was up in Jackson, Wyoming for my cousin’s wedding — surely the best wedding that ever has been or ever will be. Festivities lasted Thursday through Sunday, and by Monday, people were clearing out. From 8:30-11:30 a.m., the house was completely quiet.
What should I do? I didn’t have any of my familiar crutches. I didn’t have a car to go anywhere. I didn’t have my Bible or my prayer book.
So I ambled through the neighborhood, trying to memorize the shape of the cottonwood trees. I watched a duck swim in the pond. I walked in the wet grass in my bare feet.
I came back inside and caught up on dishes, emptying and filling two dishwashers. But it didn’t seem like work. In fact, it was a rather Brother Lawrence-like activity. The windows were open and the breeze was cool and, other than the clink of clean wine glasses, it was completely quiet.
I get into ruts so easily. Even holy ruts. Those three hours were unscripted, full, and the closest thing to silence I’ve experienced in a long time. Maybe that’s why I felt so very close to God.
