When Saturday Becomes Sunday

I sat in front of my computer yesterday morning, coffee next to me, my attention on the screen before me. I showed up, as I had promised myself to do each Saturday morning, but this time to edit someone else's words, rather than write my own.

It wasn't even really a choice. I had reported a job Wednesday--a difficult job--in downtown LA. The attorney who hired me let me know on Thursday he wants the job signed, sealed, and delivered by Monday. So Saturday morning I combed through each word spoken on Wednesday, referencing documents that were read from by muffled talkers during the proceedings, adding commas, semi-colons, proper spellings, all to deliver by Monday an accurate record of the deposition given on Wednesday.

Saturday morning was a lot of things, but reflective it was not!

Now it is Sunday, and I am here, and I wonder whether it "counts."

I went to my prayer spot early this morning, the loveseat near a sliding glass door at the back of the house. I saw Junior the Cat resting on the rug near my sitting space. Junior the Cat had not been seen for four days. Brent and I are catsitting two grand-cats for Kyle and Destiny while they and their children are transitioning between homes. Junior had snuck outside under our watch. We had some forlorn grandchildren over their lost cat (the family would have rather lost Autumn the Lesser Cat if they had a say in the matter). My daughter-in-law searched valiantly at the Humane Society and posted about the missing feline on social media. She stepped outside late last night and found Junior in the front yard. I am relieved.

Maybe I can't get Saturday morning back, but we got Junior back, and that just feels good.

Junior in the Guest Room

And I am thinking about space and wanting to write about space but keep writing about Junior and my lost Saturday morning. And I see Junior in my mind's eye, occupying the space of our newly redone guest room. New carpet, new paint, new bedding, a whiter-than-white chabby chic quilt, topped with pillows and a bright pink throw. The room is the best place in the house right now, uncluttered, fresh, and inviting. How does this animal know that this is "the place to be"? And what makes him think he can occupy that place without apology?

I wrote and published a book. My Bunco ladies, with a celebratory spirit, asked about it Thursday evening. I cannot recite the conversations, but the flavor of my responses was to make the accomplishment smaller than it is. "With apology," I said or implied things like, "It's just a little book. You should see how little it is! It's just a little something I had a desire to write for my aunt. Don't think you need to buy it, and by all means don't let it take up space on your bookshelf or space in your life by reading it."

I want to be proud of it. I want to treat it like my newborn babies. I invited others to behold the God-given bundles, to rejoice with me, to gaze upon them, to jump up and down with me in celebration, to be blessed also by my blessings.

An author friend wrote a beautiful foreword for my book. But before doing so, he expressed to me he would love to see me develop each chapter further. "Give us more of YOU," he emphasized over and over. "It's as if you are on stage holding the microphone and starting to share yourself then quickly lay it down." I read through my 108-page creation, and I do see what he meant. But I am proud of myself for taking the stage at all, for daring to hold the microphone for those few seconds. I am proud of me for taking the blankie off my baby's face and showing the lookers-on the beautiful thing God did for me.

And, no, I can't get Saturday morning back, but I can show up on Sunday. And I can't get the Bunco shrinking-my-accomplishments conversations back. But there will be more conversations about my book, opportunities to crawl into and rest on fresh, beautiful spaces, without apology.