Today, I am celebrating Sabbath. Not because I want to, but because I will crack completely if I don’t.
The last 10 days have been the busiest of fall, stuffed with fun like a scarecrow full of straw. We went Up North for a long weekend with Corey’s parents. An hour after we got home last Sunday, my parents, my sister and her three children arrived to stay with us for a week. We hosted a gathering for my parents to share about their new ministry and we ate at my families favorite Twin Cities restaurants (I lost track of how many times Emily ate at Café Latte last week) and we relished watching all seven cousins playing together under one roof. We went to Trader Joe's and the Minnesota Children's Museum and Teddy Bear Park. Everyone was gone by Friday night, just in time for us to celebrate Connor’s 8th birthday Saturday by hosting six boys here for a spy party. (I realized this weekend that I have thrown 22 birthday parties in my 10 years of parenting. Maybe next October I’ll do 31 days of Birthday Parties.)
Bottom line, as Corey would surely be saying to me right now, complete with that hand motion that says Get To The Point: We’re tired. Even good busy is busy.
This morning, at church, where I was manning our church’s Pumpkin Patch sign-up table, Natalie sided up to me and said, “So what are we doing today?”
Nothing, child. Nothing.
Sabbath is the healing I need. Today, it's not just a choice. It's saving my life.