A well-spent Sabbath we feel to be a day of heaven upon earth. —Robert Murray M’Cheyne
In honoring the Sabbath, I imagine that it’s equally important to recognize it. What I mean is that to simply say the word or clear your calendar for such a day doesn’t amount to much if we aren’t mindful of what it truly means. I’m not trying to parse words or be overly critical or judgmental, but in my own humanness I understand that it’s easy to think we’re doing something when we’re actually only giving lip service to it.
In my grief journey I have been chasing Sabbath. The Bible describes Sabbath as a weekly day of rest and cessation from ordinary labor, rooted in the Hebrew word shabat (meaning “to rest” or “to cease”). For six years I have tried to get to a place of true rest and it hasn’t been easy. In fact, it has been frustrating at best and downright elusive most days. To give myself the margin and space I so desperately need, I’ve taken up a new habit one where I mark in my mind and my heart moments of “rest and cessation from ordinary labor” whether they last a minute or an entire afternoon. Notably, the last moment of Sabbath actually occured on a Sunday morning a few weeks ago.
While visiting my daughter at college we attended church on Sunday morning. It was already a blessing to be together with the added blessing of worshiping at a church led by a pastor friend. While it has been sometime since I’ve attended worship with my daughter, we immediately fell into that old rythm…holding hands (something we had done since she was a little girl.) While holding her hand was special when she was a child, I needed it in that moment, too. I could feel my heart lighten and my spirit lift. In the beautiful, sunfilled sanctuary that morning I experienced Sabbath and much needed relief and release. I could have stayed all day.
As I type this I remember the moments when my Mother would accompany us to church. I remember looking over at her with my daugther strategically sitting between us so she could hold both our hands at once. I wonder how many moments of Sabbath I experienced without recognizing them for what they were.
Grief has a way of changing our relationship with time. Perhaps it changes our relationship with Sabbath, too. That Sunday morning, I wasn’t trying to find Sabbath. I wasn’t measuring my rest or wondering whether I was doing it right. I was simply there. And for a little while, I wasn’t chasing anything.
I’m learning to recognize Sabbath when it comes.
To stop long enough to feel it.
To let myself receive the gift without worrying about how long it will last.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
