What is it about these days that used to be so sacred and intimate? How I’d measure my time between settlements, watching diligently for the anomaly of civilization among the weeds until I finally arrived at their gates? How every moment between was just a matter of waiting, not being, not real like my Saturdays?
At what point did they sour on the vine? Of course I have my suspicions, and laboring on the Sabbath is my first, and yet I feel the absence of something much greater than my obedience. Lost through the years, perhaps left behind in a city I never left, or tangled under roots I had not meant to plant, was a different respect for time. And I’m not sure if I’ve forgotten what time is supposed to mean or if I gave it too much credit to begin with, but Saturdays are no longer iced coffee from a bottle or handfuls of goldfish crackers, and while I’m at it, Sundays are not vanilla creamer in peppermint tea and Fridays aren’t french fries in a parked car.
It’s all the same. It’s all different.
But the loss of what was has left its own disturbance in the scenery. Saturday separates itself from the weekly trudge as a downward plummet rather than the apex it once manifested. Maybe it’s my rising age eroding the divinity of the Sabbath. Maybe it’s because I read with knowledge rather than open hunger, but Saturday is twisted for me.
Saturday is the day God stayed dead.
His friends woke up in that world-remembered Friday’s bruised sky, the empty space beside them- and they lived in a world where God was dead. Sunday didn’t matter. And the dirt was godless and the food was unfulfilling because the promise was unfulfilled and it was all fake and it was better to go back to fishing and pretend that God never walked among us and tore bread and laughed. But they couldn’t leave yet, not until he had been mourned rightly, so they sat in their wrongness in a world where God was dead-and I spend most of my time in the dirt beside them-and I don’t know when Sunday is because everyday is the same; everyday but Saturday.