Sunday’s are great for two reasons. The first is because in theory, I get to exercise, and the second, I get to go to church. One is for health the other for my happy factor. Allow me to explain.
Like every other day, I’m typically awoken by one of my two cats, laying on either side of me, reminding me it is possible to have a sunspot while on Earth, my dog, who needs to be let out, or one of my daughter’s who is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the six-am-range.
Today was no different. By 7 I had donned on the running shoes for my exercise of choice, the treadmill. Yet, Porsche wants pancakes, Sophia is trying to squeeze her head through the metal rungs by our stairs. You get the picture. Time passes, breakfast, cleaning, etc., and I’m not on the treadmill. I’m literally walking towards the rubber mat of death, when Rog comes around the corner, wearing new running shoes and says “hey! want to go running outside?”
Now, I’ll let you in on something. Rog is from Ouray, Colorado, raised at @7K feet elevation. He runs like a gazelle. He needs to run like a fish needs to learn how to breath under water. Which means he’s really telling me that I he bought a new pair of shoes he wants to test out. You must also understand I like being dry, which means running in the sun (or on the treadmill) whereas Rog actually likes the rain, snow, sleet etc. because he keeps cool (that freaking high metabolism again). Mind you, he looks down at his Puma running shoes that he scored for $50 on sale and we both start laughing. You see, he’s got two full bins of running, basketball, workout/lifting shoes upstairs, all of which look as spotless as the day he brought them home from the store.
By the time we get done debating the merits of taking both girls in the Burley, which is boasting one flat tire, the hills we have around the house and whether or not it’s good to run on cement, another 30 minutes has gone by. At 10 am, it’s time for me to get ready for church, thus eliminating the possibility of a workout. Now I get to attend church, a highlight of my week.
Now, this may come as a surprise, since I’m not sure what I come across like to those in my circle of the universe, but I’m pretty sure it’s not that I’m a church-going gal. But in fact, I do. And I like it.
I go by myself (Rog is somewhere between skeptical and angry on the religion spectrum, thus he stays home with the girls), and a funny thing happens. I hear stories of love, hardship, hope and faith, and whether I tune out with boredom during lows, or cry when touched by a heartwarming story, 60 minutes is all it takes to get re-centered on the important thing in life. Family.
One word. I know it. I’ve always known it. But nothing takes the place of hearing about a 42 yr old father of four dying of a heart attack to make me stop and say, WOW, I’m really glad that wasn’t my husband, followed by a quick run-through of all the great things about Rog. Not to sound sappy, but its easy to fall into a trap of non-appreciation, which begets ingratitude, begetting frustration…you see where this goes. And it turns out that no matter the topic (are there bad topics at church?), I come home quite happy to see Rog and the family.
A few years ago, I got lazy. I stopped going for a few months, slept in (we only had 1 kid at home) and Rog said–“have you stopped going?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m just taking a break.” Thinking he’d be pleased, I asked him why he asked the question in the first place.
His answer shocked me.
“Well, I don’t know how to say this, but you are a lot nicer to me when you go to church.”
How’s that for some thick irony? Since then, I only miss if we are out of town or sick. And when I come home, Rog has had “protected time” with his girls, usually the only moments of such he gets during the week.
Now that Rog and P are off at the fair, I’ll get my workout after all. And it was all ok it didn’t happen on my timeline. I’m happy, feeling appreciative for a (live), gainfully-employed, supportive spouse.