Sunday mornings have their own vibe, a crazy mash-up of past traditions, leisure, family time, friends time, me time, maybe spiritual time. It is a day important enough to spawn memories of Sunday clothes, Sunday funnies, Sunday dinner, a Sunday drive.

The Catholic Church broke my parents’ routine dressing up and attending Sunday Mass as a family with the introduction of Saturday evening service. No more riding together in a car smelling of aftershave and hairspray, listening to the adults talk about important stuff then the reward after church of stopping for donuts. We scattered attendance, began to lie about attendance, ceased attendance. Started going when our kids were of the age, pushed until confirmation, lost faith in the Church, gave up the struggle. Pray at any time in any place sometimes with, sometimes without an intermediary or community.

Writing fills the quiet time where church going existed. In this time, other issues and questions are left outside the office door. I wrestle with characters, locations, plot, what to share and what to keep private. The years of priests preaching, nuns praying and parents dressing us up and attending Sunday Mass are layered in the writing like bedrock under ground, top soil and leaves of grass.

Sunday dinner, Sunday visitors, Sunday baseball or football games come later. After my workweek is launched.