It’s perfectly still, holy and quiet on this Saturday morning… the only sound in the house is the tap-tapping of my fingers across the keyboard. I’m studying the cumulus clouds (I learned about them last week from my second grader) through the cathedral window above our front door.
They are happy clouds, just as the science teacher wrote on my daughter’s picture – puffy and fat and lazy, just laying there, doing nothing. Then I see a plane fly through them and I wonder if they might be upset now, interrupted by our world… irritated by the need we all have to go and be and do.
“Can’t they have a little respect?” I picture a mama cumulus saying, venting to her groggy husband, huddled-up close to her, “It’s Saturday morning, for goodness sakes! Not even seven o’clock yet!”
“Mmm… hmm…” he agrees, too sleepy and peaceful to care.
My clicking and tapping across the keyboard is joined now by the murmur of my son waking up followed by the tiny thud of his little feet hitting the floor. Saturday morning has shifted and moved. The airplane, out of site now, my son’s silhouette in view. I watch it softly make its way down the stairs to find me.
Mrs. Cumulus and I give in. We stretch and move and open our arms. We nudge our husbands awake and let the day begin.
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