Only on Sundays

Finish these sentences: “Ever day of the week I _________, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­________.”

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

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196 thoughts on “Only on Sundays

  1. joshuaw123

    Everyday of the week, I’m in a tornado full of kindergartners calling my name every five seconds. “Mr. Williams can you tie my shoes?” Or, “Mr. Williams can you sing me a song?” Being a teacher of kindergarteners is a very mountanous task. I have to be moving, alert, and prepared for the worse for 10 nonstop hours Monday through Saturday. Break up little fights, making sure the kids are safe on the playground, cheking that each child is learning and moving on the right path. Then I arrive home to a lively six year old son that is eager to play anything that involves running. Whether it’s football, basketball, or even tag. My mind, body, and soul is on empty at the end of the day. But on Sundays it is very different. Sundays are days where nobody, not even my son, can bother me. Sundays are heaven for my mind, body and soul. I lay down on my king size bed. Feet propped up by two pillows. A glass full of ice cold gatorade on one side. A plate full of meat and cheese nachos on the other. Flat screen tv hanging on the wall showing my favorite football team, Baltimoore Ravens, winning every game they play. The nice glowing sun glistening into my room through the blinds. Sundays are days where I can rest and pay my own self, a great deal of appreciation and gratitude.

  2. joshuaw123

    I am elated to be speaking at the well known national football camp. Hundreds of faces of different colors staring into my eyes. Sweat dripping down their faces, dirt covering their arms and legs. When a young boy ask me, “What do you do everyday to prepare your body for the season?” A smirk appears on my face, because the things I go through on a day to day basis is just unmatched by any other football player. Everyday I wake up at 5 a.m. and do a 10 mile run as my cardio workout through the streets of Downtown Denver. Waving to pedestrians and cars as I jog by. Then I come back home and drink a glass of vitamin rich strawberry and banana smoothie and eat a plate of protein eggs. Then I take a 3 mile bike ride through the mountains of Ohio to the local Edgewater High school weight room, and go through an hour and a half weight room workout. Exhausted I eat two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to get my energy back up and flowing. Stomach nearly full, I walk down a narrow, spider web infested hallway to a small room; In which I do my daily yoga exercises to become more flexible. This routine I do Monday through Saturday at exactly 5 a.m. every morning. But Sundays are different. Sundays are days where my body is in heaven. Legs soaking in a whirlpool of ice and water. Back propped by a pillow. 60″ inch flat screen TV showing my favorite reality show, The Game. Sundays are days where I can sit back, relax and enjoy life.

  3. ninap2

    Every day of the week I spend my days in school and work, but Sundays are different. On Sundays I sleep in and wake up to the sun peeking through my blinds. After a hot cup of coffee and a refreshing shower, I take the girl I nanny, Anna, to painting class in a very nice part of town. Usually the weather is nice, at this time of day. The sky is mostly clear and the sun still hasn’t reached the top of the sky. In painting class, there are several mothers and their children whom are very happy and social. After painting class, which takes an hour, I walk Anna past several small boutiques and art galleries to her swimming class at the end of the rode. The pool is only four feet deep, made especially for children to learn to swim. She loves swimming and always has a smile on her face. When she finishes swimming, we both go to get smoothies across the street. I always get strawberry banana and Anna gets mango. Then when we get back to her house, I hang her new painting up in the office next to her other ones. So far there are five paintings on the wall, but there is room for more.

  4. Icabu

    “How do you survive over here?” the young Marine private asked.

    I smiled. As a Staff Sergeant on my third desert tour, I’d asked that question once – long ago, and answered it many times since.

    “Every day of the week I play the deadly game of the streets,” I explained, “but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I play the hope game.”

    “What’s that?”

    I fitted my worn Tiger’s cap on my head, grabbed an equally worn tennis ball and a broom handle. “Stickball, boy. Nothing better than a Sunday afternoon game. You coming along?”

    “But it’s Wednesday, not Sunday,” the private said.

    “Over here it’s Sunday whenever the work week’s over. Like this past week, it may be sixteen, seventeen days long. But, Sunday always gets here, so don’t waste it.”

    “Oh,” he said, following me out the door.

    After scouring the area for IEDs and other dangers, we had a gathering of a dozen players in the six to twelve age range. I let the young private pitch and took on the role of coach – for both teams. Even though we spoke different languages, the lot soon filled with the universal sound of hope – laughter.

  5. TBusby

    Every day of the week I study for school, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I put away all my books and take a day to rest. At least this is what I would like to do on Sundays. Sunday, the day meant for resting and recharging- yet my nagging mind won’t stand for it.
    “Class is tomorrow, maybe even a test. How dare you put down that book!” Oh, how I wish that part of my mind could be turned off, like flicking a light switch in a room not being used. This would, however, be too easy. Easy is boring, and my mind refuses to stoop to boring. So I give in, and I study. I do make time to sneak out on myself, sometimes, and head out to the beach… But not as often as I’d like.

  6. don potter

    Every day of the week I write, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I relax and let my batteries recharge by reading what other people write. If God did his creative work in six days and rested on the seventh day that schedule is certainly good enough for me.

  7. e_logan

    Every other day of the week, I forget that night. But, Sundays are different. On Sundays, I don’t have the every day distractions to keep my mind away from that night.

    I was just a little girl. I liked to laugh and skip in the beautiful plum Orchard we lived in. In the Spring, the ground would be carpeted in a thick layer of beautiful golden flowers, butterflies swooping down to kiss the delicate petals, and bees humming the well-known song of Spring. I would lay out in the grass and watch the birds, dreaming of flying away with them.

    My parents were drug addicts, but they loved me. They’d take long walks in the Orchard with me along worn dirt paths. My mother would make up songs about the animals and weave me into the story. My father would sweep me up onto his shoulders and call me his girl. Those days were the best. Spring was like heaven in the Orchard.

    It was a rainy fall night as an intense thunderstorm rolled in. Lightning was attracted to trees, so it wasn’t rare when a tree would get hit by a lightning strike, but the sound was always so deafeningly loud. A big CRACK broke the silence that night and everyone jumped a bit out of their skins.

    “What the fuck was that?” Buck said, a paranoid tweaker. His eyes bugged out of his head and he looked about the room seeking an assuring answer.

    “It was just the lightning, Buck,” my father answered, with a calm yet somewhat condescending tone.

    “Oh. Okay. Good.” Buck responded, before taking a hit of the bong that was being passed around the room.

    Danny stood up and said he was going to the bathroom. An hour later he hadn’t returned, but no one paid attention. 3 hours later I wondered out loud if Danny was OK. The adults in the room, a bit slow to react, turned their heads to me with slow horror.

    “Danny?! Danny!” My mother leapt to her feet and ran toward the bathroom. But, Danny wasn’t in there. So she ran to the bedroom, where their treasure trove of illegal drugs were kept.

    Danny was lying face down on the floor, next to a tank of Nitrous Oxide, or more commonly known as laughing gas. His limbs and face were a cool, greyish blue. My mother, beside herself in tears and panic, kicked him over. His head rolled limply to one side – he was dead.

    That night, my dad found his biggest shovel and, in the rain, he dug out a deep hole in the wet earth and I said goodbye to Uncle Danny.

    Next year, we planted a tree in the same spot we dug the year before.

  8. Daria

    Every day of the week I get up and get my son ready to go out the door. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, he is off to school. Saturday, he spends time with my parents. I get his breakfast and have him out the door by 8:20 am, Monday – Friday because he has to catch the bus at 8:30. I then spend 30 minutes on Facebook before I start with my household chores ( which never seem to end). I start upstairs in my son’s room with the making of his bed, and sometimes stepping on a Lego hurts as he might have missed it as he cleaned his room the night before. It’s on to the laundry next which never ends as there is always clothes being added to the pile so this is my NEVER ending chore. I dust every surface within my reach as I’m only five foot so my husband will get the other surfaces when he gets home from work, this is the way we have done it ever since we moved in together.
    I sweep and mop the floors and before I realize it my son is home from school. I take a little breather then just long enough to see how his day went. He then goes off to play while I get supper ready . My husband get home at 7 pm and we all sit down supper and watch a little TV. At 8 pm, my son goes to bed while my husband and I go outside for a cigarette. Then we too go to bed.
    On Saturdays, my son goes with my parents so I have the day to myself. I still do my household chores as I know nothing will get done on Sundays because Sundays are different.
    On Sundays, I ­­lay in bed my son wakes up himself because he likes to cuddle. I cherish this as I don’t know how many more of these I will have as he’s getting older and I’m pretty sure he won’t want to cuddle with his mom soon. We talk about different things but mostly about what is bothering him. I find he opens up when we are just laying there in those early Sunday mornings and I wouldn’t change them for anything not even for ALL the money in the world. Sundays are OUR time, my favorite time.

  9. jensantana

    Every day of the week I go to work but not Sunday. On Sunday I rest. I watch movies on Netflix and listen to comedy with my kids and we belly laugh at Louis CK and my 15-yr old plays XBox on my bed and I let him, and we plug in speakers to my laptop and laugh at Aziz Ansari while Nick does Ollie’s on his Tony Hawk skateboard video game. We get to hang out and be a family on Sundays. I treasure Sundays. It’s our only downtime. The rest of the week is filled with activities and school, and commitments, and other people; but Sundays are just for us. Just for family. And that’s the way I like it.

  10. stepstep

    Only-On-Sundays

    Every day of the week I try to forget, but Sundays are different. on Sundays, I reminisce.

    Throughout the week chores, major responsibilities, and other duties invade your time. Being so busy one hardly has time to think.

    On Sundays the atmosphere shifts and my mind reflects on the good ole’ days. The days before cell phones, computers, CDs, tablets, Kindles and Nooks, just to name a few came into play.

    You used to get much more for your buck. Contents of items continue to diminish but the price remains the same or increases. No more full gallons of ice cream, regardless of the flavor. No more five pounds of sugar, only four. Miracle Whip has whipped off 32 ounces to 30. Detergent deterred from the neighborhood and liquid form took over without warning. Here today, gone tomorrow are our ounces, never to be found again.

    Cell phones have become our best friend. No more luxury here. How did we ever survive without them? Ring me now. Remind me to pick up toilet paper, a loaf of bread, minus approximately five slices. Whatever happened to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich lunch or a snack? Or just ring me.

    You definitely can’t forget dot com. It knows you intimately. Whatever the situation you better believe the solution can be found on dot com.

    Manners have taken a vacation. Out the window with “thank you”, “please”, “yes Ms. or Mr.” instead of the exaggerated, famous, “what”, or “may I?”

    Kids no longer wear kids apparel. High heels for five year olds. Really?

    Times have changed. To some extent we all have to adapt to survive in this world. Is all change good or necessary?

    Why should you have to press one for English when I was born and reared and already reside in this country? English should be the first and mandatory language here. Why should you have to go through a zillion prompts before you can speak to a live person? The worst of the matter is sometimes there is no live person. To whom do you complain? Texting versus speaking deprive humans of interacting with others. Don’t you want to see the reaction of others concerning your conversation? Do you desire a live interview and your chance to give your input? Touching is required sometimes as well as intervening with live conversation.

    Sundays are beautiful. Soft music accompanies your thoughts of yesterday versus today. All traditions aren’t bad and neither are all changes.

    LaSteph

  11. dejauveda

    “Ever day of the week I am haunted with the anxiety of a new problem.. hoping some strange occurrence doesnt take me out of my character..but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I rest all day and dont worry about the worried of tomorrow

  12. theafbaker

    Every day of the week I absorb his punches, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I plot my escape. We dress in our best clothes and head to our small town church. He sits beside me with his arm wrapped around my small frame while the Pastor talks about love and life and forgiveness. He nods when appropriate, says amen when necessary, all the while squeezing my shoulders as if I could slip away at any moment.

    But after church, when the congregation stands and makes their way to the back, a small old woman with a scar under her eye pushes people aside. Our eyes connect and an unspoken message is sent.

    “I have to use the bathroom,” I say as we are herded to the narthex. He doesn’t like this but with a grunt and a shove he pushed me towards the ladies room. Before he lets go of my arm, he gives it a hard squeeze and in a venomous tone tells me to make it fast.

    I open the door and wait anxiously by the sinks. Seconds later the old woman enters.

    “We need to be quick,” I say with a voice mimicking courage.

    She understands and hands me the name and location. I quickly take it and read it over and over until it’s engrained in my memory and then I flush it down the toilet. There’s a knock on the ladies room door that makes both of us jump. He’s out there, waiting, growing impatient.

    “I have to go,” I whispered but before I leave the old woman surprises me with a hug. Her old arms wrap around my thin waist and as she pulls herself away there are tears in her eyes.

    “Please promise me you’ll be at the location. Don’t let him do to you what my husband did to me.”

    He knocked again, this time louder and with a greater sense of urgency.

    “I promise,” I say willing myself not to cry. Then I take a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.
    We went home and the week starts all over again, but it’s different. It’s the last because I know that next Sunday, it will all be over.

  13. theafbaker

    Every day of the week I absorb his punches, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I plot my escape. We dress in our best clothes and head to our small town church. He sits beside me with his arm wrapped around my small frame while the Pastor talks about love and life and forgiveness. He nods when appropriate, says amen when necessary, all the while squeezing my shoulders as if I could slip away at any moment.

    But after church, when the congregation stands and makes their way to the back, a small old woman with a scar under her eye pushes people aside. Our eyes connect and an unspoken message is sent.

    “I have to use the bathroom,” I say as we are herded to the narthex. He doesn’t like this but with a grunt and a shove he pushes me towards the ladies room. Before he lets go of my arm, he gives it a hard squeeze and in a venomous tone tells me to make it fast.

    I open the door and wait anxiously by the sinks. Seconds later the old woman enters.

    “We need to be quick,” I say with a voice mimicking courage.

    She understands and hands me the name and location. I quickly take it and read it over and over until it’s engrained in my memory and then I flush it down the toilet. There’s a knock on the ladies room door that makes both of us jump. He’s out there, waiting, growing impatient.

    “I have to go,” I whisper but before I leave the old woman surprises me with a hug. Her old arms wrap around my thin waist and as she pulls herself away there are tears in her eyes.

    “Please promise me you’ll be at the location. Don’t let him do to you what my husband did to me.”

    He knocked again, this time louder and with a greater sense of urgency.

    “I promise,” I say willing myself not to cry. Then I take a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

    We went home and the week would start all over again, but it was different. It was the last because I knew next Sunday, it would all be over.

  14. Jeremy Pink

    Every day of the week I think about the weekend, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­am haunted by the return of the work week. From the moment I rise, I feel as though I cannot enjoy my last day off. There is much going on, much to enjoy, but my mind is elsewhere. I am keenly aware of the passing of every second, my Monday drawing nearer. On the seventh day, God rested. I envy him.

  15. throughdiscreteeyes

    Every day of the week I try to forget but Sundays are different. On Sundays all I can do is remember.

    The soft plush pillow and the wrinkled sheets and blankets spread all around, made everything look like a jigsaw puzzel. The rain fell calmly outside my window. I remeber hearing it fall-drip drop drip drop. Suddenly, it turned louder into a thumping noise. Thump thump thump! Frightened, I got up from my bed and made my way over to the window. The raindrops blurred the
    image of two colors no parent ever wants to see-blue and red flashing lights.
    On this Sunday morning I remembered when we laid him, my son, in the ground. Every week I try had to forget, I try to understand why, I trust god that everything will work out as planned but on this Sunday morning I am doing more than remembering, i am never forgetting.

    1. Kerry Charlton

      You will never forget. Remember the good times, his smile, his laughter, the times he made you happy, the occasions he upset you. Christmas mornings, birthday parties, those rare times with one on one talks. There is no understanding on our part; comfort comes with passage of time. Only those who have walked in your shoes, will understand.

  16. terrylynn

    Every day of the week I watch people, strangers that come and go. Projecting images of who they would have you believe they are. But Sundays are different, I become all of those people. Insecurities masked and intergrated with arrogance as I sit down to a game of poker. Seven other players at the table. All focusing, not giving anyone signs of the cards they could have in their hand. Placing bets to either intise or chase away. Keeping a straight face while holding a pair of nothing or quite possibly something. The cards becoming less relavant. The eyes, are they shifting, darting across from player to player, or are they staring straight ahead so as to not be forced to show signs of weakness. Are they smiling or smirking with the voice commanding strength or teasing with hint of a giggle saying ‘test me’. Much as it is in life or in people impersonating who they think they are or would like you to believe they are.
    Then back to the game of life everyday of the week. Watching and observing. I smile within and wait for Sunday. With the skill of a well rehearsed actor who studied his subjects and is ready. Sunday comes, the curtain rises, and lady luck steps onto the stage to perform her best performance of a lifetime. “I’m all in!” I say with confidence and a wink.

  17. throughdiscreteeyes

    Everyday of the week I try to forget but Sundays are different. On Sundays all I can do is remember.

    The soft plush pillow and the wrinkled sheets and blankets spread all around made everything look like a jigsaw puzzel. The rain fell calmly outside my window. I remeber hearing it fall-drip drop drip drop. Suddenly, it turned louder into a thumping noise. Thump thump tbump! Frightened I got up from my bed and made my way over to the window. The raindrops blurred the
    image of two colors no parent ever wants to see-blue and red flashing lights.
    On this Sunday morning I remembered when we laid him, my son, in the ground. Every week I try had to forget, I try to understand why, I trust god that everything will work out as planned but on this Sunday morning I am doing more than remembering, i am never forgetting.

  18. WV Jim

    Every day of the week I am a normal, working stiff, undistinguishable from the unwashed masses; but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I become a Super Hero.

    Oh, not a super hero you would call on to save the world, necessarily. Truth be told, you wouldn’t call on me to even save your cat if it’d climbed up a tree. But I’m a super hero, nonetheless.

    On Sundays, I become … PawPaw.

    Yes, PawPaw: faster than a thrown wiffle ball, more powerful than a mad mom or dad, able to draw tall buildings with a single pencil. I am … PawPaw.

    And I’m not affected by Kryptonite or any other mineral. The sounds of screeching mothers means little to me. I am, after all, her father, and she still listens to me on occasion. There is only one thing that weakens me, and this is a member of the vegetable family; so I make sure and stay away from Brussels Sprouts.

    But to Tyler I am the all-powerful PawPaw. He listens to me at all times. He hangs on to my every word. Anything I say is gospel to him, and my words are as powerful as even the most profound Biblical statement or teacher’s directive. If he hears it from others, it must be corroborated through PawPaw. If he hears it from PawPaw…it is the truth.

    Believe me, I don’t take this power lightly. I realize my power must, at all times, be done for good. It would be too easy to fill Tyler full of cola and sugar, and let him run circles around his parents, all the time gloating in this influence I have over my grandson.

    No, I use my power for good, not for evil. For I am…PawPaw.

    Faster than a television remote, more powerful than cookies and milk, able to leap to decisions in mere minutes.

    I am PawPaw.

    1. Daria

      This was very cute. It reminded me of the Sundays when my grandparents came to visit us when we were young. There was 4 of us and I’m the oldest. My siblings don’t remember our Pop much as he died of cancer when I was 11 and my sister who is next to me is 5 years younger than me. This reminded me of my Pop very much because I hung on to his every word.

  19. HeartHush

    Every day of the week I get to get lost in the chaotic activities of life, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I get up at 6 am, put a tea kettle of water on to steam, as I sniff and allow the aroma of fresh brewed tea surround my senses, I slip my heavy terry robe on and mindful of any loose rocks, I walk out to the single rose bush that is blooming with its iridescent pink and red petals in the makeshift greenhouse that Grandma and I had erected in the months long ago in my youth.

    It is here, in this very place that I once again am transported to a time when I was young and full of life, visiting my grandmother during the hot summer months after school had long ago freed me to run and play in the grass, and work alongside my grandmother in her flower beds on those precious mornings.

    It is here in this little ‘house’ of love that I was able to keep the rose bush of my youth from becoming parched and withering away under the hot sun rays as it cascades from its lovely perch in the morning sky. It is also here where my grandmother breathed her last breath of life as the emergency responders tried valiantly to save her from fading away into the sunrise that she adored.

    1. Amy

      Some issues with run-on sentences and missing punctuation. The tense also changes from present in the beginning to past in the end. Not sure what you’re really trying to convey here.

  20. JessCheney

    Every day of the week, I wait. I wait to hear the sound of morning come through the big looking glass in the room where we sleep-chirping sounds! It is not a good sound, not like my TOY sounds, but it means it’s morning! Time for my family to wake up! I know not to hop up on the bed before Pops wakes up, or he will say ‘G-O!’ and I don’t like that word. I don’t like it at all. So I wait and wait and try to ignore the chirping sounds coming from the big looking glass, but sometimes I can’t take it anymore! So I go and find TOY. TOY is my favorite thing in the world, except for my Mommy and Pops. TOY is great! Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky! it goes, and I bite it again, and again, and again! SQUEAKY, SQUEAKY, SQUEAKY!

    “S-H-A-K-E!” Pops says my name. He’s scolding me. I don’t bite anymore. Then, I wait some more. It’s quiet again. Pops doesn’t say anything. Did he go back to sleep?

    SQUEAKY!

    “S-H-A-D-Y…” this time, it’s my Mommy’s voice I hear. My mommy’s awake!

    I wait until Mommy and Daddy get out of B-E-D. My favorite part of the day!

    Then, I must wait for my morning food. I hate morning food. It’s always the same. I want C-H-I-C-K-E-N! I LOVE C-H-I-C-K-E-N! But I don’t get it, instead, I get my crunchy things.

    Then, the horrible time of the day! Mommy and Pops go away. They have left me, but I know they will come back. So I wait, and wait, and wait some more. T-O-Y is my only friend now.

    SQUEAKY!

    I don’t like that sound anymore. So I get SQEAKY! thing out of T-O-Y.

    Finally, I can stop waiting. Mommy and Pops have come home!

    I lick Mommy first. Then Pops. I wag my tail and jump on Mommy when she sits on C-O-U-C-H.

    This makes me H-A-P-P-Y. I spend every minute with Mommy and Pops, because soon, they will go back to sleeping room and I will wait once more.

    Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday, I wait. And wait. And wait.

    But Sundays are different. On Sundays, Mommy and Pops take me to the place where Bones and Bow Wow and I play, and I am allowed to pee on everything! MY tree, MY flower bush, MY sitting thing, MINE!!

    Then, I chase Bones until I am tired, then I refuel-there is always a great big bowl of delicious W-A-T-E-R nearby. Then I chase him more, and claim 10 more trees! MINE, MINE, MINE!

    I hear Mommy and Pops calling me. They want to go home.

    I keep running.

    I LOVE Sundays. Because of P-A-R-K, because of Bones, because of Bow Wow, because of trees… but mainly because on Sundays, it’s Mommy and Pop’s turn to wait for ME!

    1. smallster21

      Bahaha, I burst out when the dog was peeing on everything to claim his ownership over them. I’m impressed with the dog’s intelligence and S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G abilities. Were you just placing emphasis on these particular words? I found myself spelling out the words as I read. Cute story, I enjoyed it 🙂

      1. JessCheney

        Hahaha thank you! Actually, I always spell out letters for him when I don’t want him to know what I’m talking about. My fiance and I are always spelling out T-O-Y instead of saying ‘toy’ so he won’t get too excited lol. Thanks so much for your feedback, it is great to know some people might enjoy my silliness 🙂

  21. yellows

    Every day of the week I wear a smile. I study. I work. I meet up with friends. I study some more. But Sundays are different. On Sundays, I buy flowers. I drive for many hours. I walk through green grass and up a small hill. On Sundays, I visit my parents. I lay the flowers down. On Sundays, I weep.

  22. bjamison71

    Every day of the week I masquerade –I become whoever I need to be, do whatever I need to do, and say whatever I need to say– to fit into this mold I have created. But Sundays are different. On Sundays, I can breathe.

  23. PoetWriter

    Every day of the week I allow my busy life to overwhelm me, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I take time out to go to church and find comfort for a few hours. Those few hours allow me to have some peace before I go home to the consent homework that suffocates me from all sides. Sunday mornings are my time to relax. I get to see my church family smile and interact with their friends, listening to the preacher’s sermon with their full attention. My church is my second home; it’s the place where I am the happiest. I swell with a sense of freedom when I enter church; this is the place where I can leave my worries behind me, for the only thing that matters is my church family and worshiping God. There’s no greater wonder than seeing the sun shine through stain glass windows, the beautiful pictures glowing with light. To hear the choir sing, the children laugh, the pastor’s sermon, and the congregation joining in song is such a joy and treasure. This is where I belong, and I wouldn’t change that for anything in the world.

    Once I leave church, I head home to settle down and catch some sleep. It’s nice to get some shut eye before starting my never ending stack of homework. Sometimes I watch NASCAR, if I don’t forget that it’s on. Most Sunday afternoons I end up reading. Reading is my passion; there is not a day that goes by that I don’t read. Reading allows me to escape the real world, only for a few short hours. Sometimes I get so involved with reading that I push aside homework until last minute. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t help it. I love reading way too much. Sunday nights end up with me doing homework. There are usually five or six homework assignments from three different classes that are due by midnight. This is where my life goes back to the normal stressful routine of getting everything done on time. I usually wonder, “Why is everything due on Sundays?” It just ruins my day. My happiness ends up turning into stress as the night passes by.

    This is how my Sundays end, with me waiting for next weekend to come along and give me a break from the busy week. At least the weekends are less stressful than the weekdays. Sure Sundays are when I have the most homework, but at least I get to have a few short hours of freedom in the morning. I get to leave my worries behind me, the consent pile of homework. Sunday mornings are bright and cheerful, not laden with the worries that the evening usually brings. My time at church is nice and peaceful, for those burdens of everyday life are left behind as I set my heart into worshipping my faith.

    1. Amy

      This felt much more like a journal exercise than a story. It would benefit from pulling the reader into an actual scene of an event, rather than just a few paragraphs of reflection.

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