Over the years, Sundays have always had a unique and different kind of feel to them. The old folks of my childhood would call it the Sabbath Day. Although this would not be Biblically accurate, it was theoretically true. It was a day when we rested from the normal routine of our lives.

That’s not to say that we were never busy on the first day of the week. There was always a bustle of activity. Mama worked in the kitchen like almost any other day except on Sunday mornings we had pancakes and cured ham for breakfast instead of eggs and grits. Dishes were washed. Shoes were polished. I can see Mama standing in the den wearing her slip as she ironed her Sunday dress.

Dad and I were always ready to leave for church before Mama and Marian. He would walk to the mailbox so he could flip through the AJC. If there was time, I’d read Peanuts or Beetle Bailey in the comic section. Sundays felt different partly because we were all together at a fairly late hour of the morning. The house got quiet once the Gospel Singing Jubilee was over, and the TV was turned off.

There was a sense of ease about the day from the beginning.

I liked church, but what I looked forward to the most was the freedom of the afternoon. It began in the car on the ride home from church. Dad would take off his clip-on tie and loosen the top button which was sign for me to do the same. I hated ties and tight collars. It was a kind of prison from which I was glad to escape.

The ’67 Falcon that we drove was not a spirited car, but on the way home from church Dad drove it with a playfulness that never happened on any other day of the week. He’d whistle when he drove home on Sundays. One of the hymns from church. When we got to the curve at Eastside Grocery, turning out toward home, he’d speed up enough to make us roll around in the back seat.

Mama was not enthusiastic. “John!” she’d say, calling out his name in an excited tone. Half because she’d clutch her pocketbook in her lap a little tighter and half because she disapproved of riding off the edge of the road too close to the ditch.

Once home, the first order of business was to get out of our Sunday clothes. Mama was strict about the “no grass stain” rule on my britches. We all changed clothes except for her. She’d take off her heels and put on her house shoes, but the dress stayed on. The necklace and earrings stayed on. She’d take her kitchen apron off the hook on the back of the pantry door, tie it around her waist, and get busy with lunch.

I don’t know why Sunday lunches were always such an elaborate meal. Any other day of the week a sandwich or a bowl of beanie-weenies with Ritz Crackers would have been offered. Sundays were for fried chicken or roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits. Maybe creamed corn or fried okra and butter beans. Almost always there was a pie finishing off in the oven while we ate.

Even the chores were different on a Sunday. While Mama was cooking, Dad would drag out the Electrolux vacuum from the closet in their bathroom. The low profile cannister reminded me of a shotgun shell on wheels with a hose attached to one end. The cord was spring loaded and hidden inside the backend. Dad would supervise as he taught me the finer points of running the power head underneath the couch and around table legs.

After lunch, most weeks I was free to play outside or wander the fields with my BB gun. Every now and then there was an “ox in the ditch” which meant that there was some little job that needed to be done. Dad might get me to help change the oil in the car. We might put out some hay for the cows. But there was never any real work done on Sundays. We didn’t mow the grass or hoe in the garden.

I learned that “to rest” doesn’t necessarily mean to be idle. Sometimes the most restful thing a person can do is to do the simple things that the demands of the work week don’t allow. Naps are good, but so is fishing. Mama never sewed on Sundays because that is what she did the other six days of the week. She might spend the afternoon cutting coupons out of the paper.

Sunday afternoons were sometimes used for visiting with other folks. We might drive into Hampton to sit a spell with Mr. Ozer and Miss Jean Daniel. Lawn chairs in the shade of the pecan trees. Kids playing in the yard. Stories and yarns being swapped between friends.

Every couple of months, we’d all change clothes after church and head off to go see my grandparents who lived in Social Circle, Georgia. Along the way, we’d stop in Porterdale to eat lunch at the old hotel. I have vague memories of the buffet line and the blue willow plates full of good food.

I wonder sometimes if we have lost the ability to rest from the pace of this life. We get so caught up in the things that demand something from us that we never slow down enough to ease the mind and renew the body and feed the soul. Too much 24-hour TV and too much work and too much go-go-go cannot possibly be good for us.

I’m not advocating a life of loafing. That would be disagreeable to the opposite extreme.

I am suggesting that the old ways of spending a Sunday might give us a fresh perspective on this old world. As imperfect as the church might be, it’s not a bad thing to gather with the rest of the flawed people you know for a chance to hear a Word of encouragement. Roast beef at home might be better than a burger on the go. Lawn chairs in the backyard with friends have got to be better than watching the Falcons get embarrassed again.

I know. I’m sounding grumpy. Maybe nostalgic. Folks my age are always longing for the good old days which may or may not have been all that good.

I would contend, however, that the sabbath principle of rest is still valid. That doesn’t mean catching up on sleep over the weekend. It could but not entirely.

Sometimes it just means recognizing that six days of a fast paced, kid crazy, work overloaded, deadline demanding life is enough. Reserve one day for the things that you don’t have to do. One day to worship. One day to recharge and discover the joy of simple pleasures. One day to pause and remember what’s important in this life.

If Sunday isn’t different from any other day of the week, then we are the losers. We are the tired, and the poor, and the aimless.

God, show us the difference.