Sacred days

I feel like you all know me well enough by now to, at least a touch, understand how I see days. When I was little I thought it strange that Sunday was the only day that was considered “sacred”. How strange that was for me to start to habitually adopt. How strange that not every day had the capacity for greatness, for sunshine. Now, no longer being a youngen, I understand why I felt so junky about it.

My dad and I try to go to Vail, CO to ski once a year. It’s the thing we have most in common: skiing until our legs cramp and our eyes are on fire. Last year, on Sunday, dad said we should do something extra special because it was the sacred day. I looked at him quizzically, then gazed at my horizon, folds of rock and snow with scattered wintergreen, “well then, what’s this?”

The thing about non-wasted, special days is they are often entirely effortless. Days that were not “supposed to be special” turn into that because of the easy-flow of living. When I was living in Grand Rapids, we had a massive snow storm, shutting down businesses and electricity, roads, all life in general, it seemed. Nate and Averie and I walked in this seemingly apocalyptic world to find a coffee shop that was open, supplying us heat and warm drinks. I remember stumbling all over the street, unable to feel my nose and toes, tears springing to my eyes in this frigid air. Sitting in a corner coffee shop with a frosted window and a toasty coffee made that day completely sacred for me.

And I’ve learned, as I’ve added more years and more days, that each day has the capacity for purity, for being wildly wonderful. Sometimes we just search and pull and ache for them until it seems they will never come, looking back on a house that was supposed to bring so many memories of joy and laughter. And then we decide not to try so hard; not to seek so desperately for goodness that we seem to be creating, and the house comes to life.