It’s Sunday. As a kid, that meant church and Sunday dinner with all the imagined Southern staples. No sleeping in or playing golf in our household. Rather, we were up, finely dressed and yelling at each other to hurry up as to not miss the opening hymn.

Right side, fourth row back were the indented cushions for the backsides of us Sullivans. I inherited my father’s elbow and during the many times I caught him snoozing during the lengthy sermon, he would get my abrupt pointed sharpness to his right side. I guess I thought it was my job to make sure he was getting enough Jesus. I wish now I had let the poor man sleep.

For a sundry of reasons folded in the many chapters of my life, I have chosen not to continue this tradition with my own family. Sunday has become a day for soccer games, laundry, kicking back and the necessary prep for the week ahead.

Yet, there is a part of me that longs for – and desperately needs – a day of perspective. A moment of full stoppage where I rise above the day-to-day and make meaning of what the hell I am doing with this measured and finite gift of my life.

No, it doesn’t have to be Sunday. Or even a full day, for that matter. It just needs to happen. A determined moment whereby I catch myself. Get off the hamster wheel. Stop and smell and see and feel and be and connect with all that is within and beyond me.

As healing salve for our busyness, we need serenity. Margin. Space between the business of making a living.

Christians call it Sunday. Jews call it the Sabbath. I don’t think it matters what you call it. I just know that it is essential to make life about living. For, it reminds us of purpose and recalls gratitude. Two ingredients to a satisfying existence.

Make a point of scheduling it. Your life will be richer for it.

For the rise of your life …

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