I have two favourite days of the week: Sunday and Monday. The reasons are, of course, quite different, but the fact remains. Two favourite days. Perhaps the most salient points in all of this aren’t why these two run neck-and-neck in the eternal greyhound race of days, but why they differ. Fully expecting you not to care even a tiny little bit, let me explain.
Sunday I go to church. Twice, even. For most people, that’s a little bit of overkill, and to be honest with you, I see no good reason that there should be two church services instead of one; the fact remains there are two, so most weeks I attend both. My church has good preaching, another thing I enjoy: it’s not often I am challenged spiritually outside of those sermons – except for my good friends, thank you. Often I have to challenge my thinking based on the drama of scripture; though I’ll be frank and admit I have a difficult time placing myself under it instead of over it. I’m no genius, that’s for sure; I may be on the cusp of brilliance, but always on the cusp and never actually fully there. All the same, I have the same crippling burden of knowlege and ego to go with it, and scripture constantly plays the hammer to my self-loving nail. In those moments, I’m glad my mind can’t come up with the ten thousand ways to escape from underneath it: I am not so smart as to avoid God where he shows himself.
That’s not the end of it, though. Church is community, and I enjoy my friends, their conversation, their company, and at the end of the day just love the fact that they’re there. Some of them could live a little closer – you know you should all move to Mississauga, the Bedroom City – but all the same, there they are.
A great lazy day, too. I’m not sure about all the Sabbatarians out there, but I fully enjoy Sundays just doing nothing at all. Then again, you know me: I get bored quickly. It often turns into a time to play piano, play guitar, read a smashing novel, tinker with my own mind to find how very awkward its geometry is, or talk about anything at all under the sun to anyone who can return words.
Monday is different in every way. Monday is the rush of adrenaline, the loading of springs, the bustle, the flow of things coming and going. I’ve never – as far as I can remember – had a boring Monday. Every customer calls on Monday, and every package arrives. Employees come to work ready to hit the bricks: we always get a lot done on Monday.
And at the end of the day I collapse into bed, feeling like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, but aware how in one day I’ve actually made a difference in someone’s life. Even if that difference was merely getting tools to them on time; I may be a small cog in the economy, but I’ve done my bit. And my bit is good – it makes me happy.
Monday also seems the best time to catch up on a weekend’s worth of stories. Elyssa, as always, will have puttered around the house; Rebekah will remind me she’s still guyless and enjoying her life; Jerry will walk through the door, coffee in hand, ready to pawn off on me another hapless female; Steve will have put yet another piece of trim somewhere important in Casa Anjema; and Daryll will still be eyeing my head for his skull collection. I’ll walk over to the manual department and maybe get one of those date-filled cookies from Stu, and we can all have a mighty laugh at what outlandish garb Brian may or may not be sporting that day. I love stories; thus, I love Mondays.
This Sunday sticks out, though. For some reason it’s the best one I’ve had in months. If you were to ask my why, I could list several reasons, but at the end of examination I simply feel better. Or, as Nick says, we’re welcoming back the Dan we haven’t seen in two years.
Maybe that’s the meat of this post: I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere, but that place is closer to where I started. Am I wiser for the wrong road taken? Yes, and in that sense there is no shame in having walked that way, but in another sense a cloud has lifted from over my head. And it’s good to feel it go. And it’s bad to feel it go.
Do you know what I’m talking about? The movie Swingers does, in its own testosterone-filled way. You live with something so long, good or bad, when it’s gone, sometimes you miss it – simply because you were used to it being there. Yet, I was no more certain of my future a year ago than I am now; but with the kite string untangled and that old fabric and wire floating away, I can do it right this time, whatever this time holds. Or I can do it better. Or I can at least give it the ole college try.
Like I said. It was a good Sunday.