It's official. Today is Monday and it is one of the least loved days on the weekly calendar. For most folks it is the first day of a work week. For others, it's just another day and is sometimes their "saturday". Antique shops are notorious for taking Mondays off. I don't really have any complaints about Monday to speak of. I have a deadline for my newspaper column on Mondays, so that makes it a rather significant day to remember. Other than that, I try to take it easy on Mondays and spend a lot of time writing for the week. For me, it's easy to sense the presence of God and hear Him speak when I read His word on Mondays. I attribute that to the time I spend focusing on Him in Sunday School, Worship and such. So Mondays are kinda sweet for me...a day of reflection...a day of planning the week ahead.
Never fails when I go to Facebook, the moans and groans are almost audible.
My blogposts get the most readers on Mondays, too. So I suppose there is a lot of folks leaning back in their recliners, sipping coffee, sweet tea or energy drinks. I have it on pretty good authority, if there is any leftover cornbread from Sunday dinner, that a dear friend of mine might even be spooning the soggy stuff out of a glass of buttermilk while he reads Monday-morning bloggers rant, rave, moan, groan, grumble and complain about everything from theology to rain on their parades.
It's odd when you think about it. We have been given only so many days appointed on earth to breathe, to love, to enjoy, to pursue happiness, yet so often we are found begrudging the existence of the hour at hand. Wouldn't you think after a Sabbath day of rest, we'd appreciate another day of living with the blessings of God?
I remember one of the sweetest prayers my elderly daddy ever prayed on a Monday morning. It was at breakfast as his feet dangled over the edge of his nursing-home bed. His hair was rumpled, his tee-shirt stained from midnight snacking, and he bowed his head. In between oxygen-fueled breaths, he says, "Thank you, O Lord for another day of living. Thank you for Your protection last night. I especially thank you for this food before me, and pray You use it to nourish my body. Watch over Shirley and my family and give Hariette a safe trip home. In Your precious son's name, I pray. Amen."
Then with his feeble, shaking, Parkinson's-afflicted hand, daddy would lift up the rubbermaid lid to find his usual runny tasteless, scrambled eggs, dried out cold toast, and bowl of grits. No salt allowed. No sugar. No fat. I'd look at that tray and watch my father's labored breathing, and wonder how in the world he could be so thankful for another day of living. Yet, he was. Today, he is fully whole and feasting on the bounty of the Lord. What a neat thought the LORD just put in my head. It's enough to make me want to count my blessings for awhile. How about you? selahV
