Rainy Days and Sundays

Rainy days don’t get me down. Sundays . . . an entirely different story.

Since Greg died, most days feel like they are either a Friday or a Sunday, sometimes the two entwined. Many Friday evenings we left work and went to a movie. Sunday afternoons we ate out or rode around, sometimes both. Those times were our relaxing times together, nothing we had to do but be with each other.

This Sunday has been particularly rough. The rain this morning didn’t dampen my mood; getting up and knowing Greg was not in the house with me had already done that. I’ve done some housework, driven a hundred miles, bought some things I needed, listened to some Travis, read a little, admired God’s handiwork . . . and cried. 

Even though I’ve cried most of the day, grief hasn’t had me in the depths of despair as it has done many times before. Today, I’m missing Greg desperately, wanting his presence and knowing I can never have him in my life again. All my thoughts of Greg bring tears, no matter how pleasant those thoughts may be.

My Sundays are sad. I can sit in the yard and enjoy seeing all that God has made that surrounds me. But sadness lingers, seeming to be a tangible part of the landscape, as if our farm is also grieving over Greg’s loss.

I can’t skip Sundays. I can only hope they eventually become less sad.