Sunday
Reclamation
Sundays no longer leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth.
They are sacred now, unlike when I was a regular Sunday morning (and Sunday and Wednesday night) churchgoer. The anxiety gnaws at my stomach as I write this, triggering the exhaustion and panic cocktail my children and I consumed while I forced us to attend those services.
Just when I thought I couldn’t endure getting my four young children motivated and out the door for services and fantasized about backsliding by staying home every once in a while, our pastor would inevitebly give a guilt-ridden sermon somehow loosely based on a New Testament scripture that commands, “Forsake not the gathering of the brethern, together” or some such nonsense. I haven’t any motivation to look that up for chapter and verse; if you know, you know. The real reason is that cults need to reinforce their teachings continually and exhaust you so that you are too tired to question them or leave. The more often you attend, the more your brain absorbs their teachings.
When I pushed and scolded my children and myself to tears or fits of rage when they weren’t eating or getting ready fast enough, I inevitably heard from a well-intentioned friend that the devil was wreaking havoc in my home to keep me from going to the Lord’s house. <sigh> Onward, Christian soldiers!
They may have been right as the anxiety devil no longer visits me on Sunday mornings and nights (or Wednesdays).
My current Sundays are holy days spent at home or in nature with my dogs and lover. No alarm rattles our slumber-laden bodies. We rise casually, mindfully, at our own pace. Whoever gets up first (usually him) starts the coffee. The dogs are let out, and we snuggle and sip our way into the day. Many Sundays, we allott ahead of time as our day, thus getting all the “have tos” done Mon-Sat.
Each Sunday is different. Today, for example, I am sitting in our backyard hammock, settled amidst the Appalachian trees, writing this while he strings his handmade osage bow and practices shooting it. Knowing him, if it feels the slightest bit off, he will spend the next hour or so at his workbench getting it just right.
The dogs play, dig, or lie in repose. Sometimes, they are near or across the yard. No matter, a familial energy connects us as we enjoy peaceful companionship.
I regret not modeling this for my children and enjoying their company as our souls were soothed by making art and succumbing to Sunday’s seducing siren call of rest, creativity, nourishment, and connection on repeat. Instead, driven by fear of hell from a vengeful, narcissistic god, I wanted them “saved.” What I gave them was a healthy dose of generational trauma.
Thankfully, I am a terrible evangelist, and not one of them has fallen for the ancient lie that they are corrupt and sinful and must grovel to an invisible Sky Daddy for forgiveness. However, the religious trauma remains—the scars of a mother more interested in their behavior than their humanity.
My new Sunday practice is a balm for that hurt, too. I cannot go back and change their childhoods any more than I can change mine. I can make amends by apologizing and offering a healthy me should they want a relationship. They are not obligated to forgive me or talk to me. I don’t abide by the manipulative idea that we owe our parents forgiveness or respect. Forgiveness is a choice, and respect must be earned. We have found our way back to each other in their time.
As an agnostic, I acknowledge a universal energy bigger than all living things that is a constant, encouraging friend. We are all connected through this energy. It is not punitive or authoritarian; love is its simplest and most complex component. Sometimes, that energy presents as my higher self, collective humanity, my late Nana, or Nature; whatever is most needed, the Universe provides as the same consistent, comforting presence.
I have reclaimed Sundays as healing for all those I harmed and myself by trying to cram us in a box where we didn’t belong. Nature is my church, and I worship at the altar of yoga, art, and self-love.
So, excuse me while I sip Lady Grey tea, share a lazy day with my human and pets, post this, and then paint.
What are you reclaiming?
I love this story so much.