a thought.

I love summer Sundays.
Summer Sundays when you get home from a sunny church service, all air-conditioned and cold, and talk over the beautiful truths heard with your father about your Father.
Summer Sundays when you open your bedroom window after lunch and climb into bed with a good book. You read until the words muddle together and lazy, sleepy thoughts enter your head. Soft thunder sounds outside and grey clouds begin to occupy the sky. You pull your blanket closer to your face, mark your place in your book, and rest.
Summer Sundays when you wake up in the late afternoon to the the sound of light rain hitting the roof. You wash your face, make some tea, and drive to church again with the windows down to sit with an intimate little group in the large wooden sanctuary.
Summer Sundays when a teacher's voice fills the echoey hall while the sun sets slowly. The sky's a faint blue. The air is cool and damp, perfumed by the earth and the rain.
Summer Sundays when the twilight is spent picking raspberries and listening. Listening to the songs of little creatures in the woods. Listening to the secret whisperings of the green trees. Listening to the pulse of the cool blades of grass beneath your bare feet.
Summer Sundays when Monday is looking anything but blue.