I think my dog observed the Sabbath today. We went out of town this past weekend, and, left to her own devices, she ran herself sick. She ate all the food I left her in one massive binge. She barked constantly, ensuring our home is safe from threats like…squirrels.
When we returned last night, she was giddy. She jumped and moaned, positive we had abandoned her to the back yard forever. She eschewed her dog bed for the mat in our bathroom, where she could keep an eye on us. When I awoke this morning, she sat by my side, wagging her tail until I walked her.
Today, she went back to bed after our walk and hasn’t stirred since. I don’t expect her to respond until dinnertime. She will need a good 24 hours to recover.
I rub her head. “Mommy understands, honey. It’s okay.”
I spend my weekdays running myself ragged, sensing danger at every stray sound. I’m not a stockbroker or a trauma surgeon. I’m a mom and a writer – how boring is that? Yet I fill my days like sausages.
Life is too short to stuff a mushroom,” Erma Bombeck once observed. Yet that’s what it feels like – trying to shove too much into too small a space.
On Sabbath, I jump for joy. Then moan at God for abandoning me to the cold, cruel world. Then, as evening brings with it, Sabbath, I crash. The next morning I am eager for the Lord to take me for a walk.
Unlike my dog, I know when the clock stops. I budget my time and energy during the week, knowing that Sabbath is coming. I don’t consume a weekend’s worth of nourishment in one sitting. Yet, I find myself oh, so ready, when my Lord returns.