As I navigate this path that I am on, this path of reflection, self-awareness, and self-improvement. I discover new things about myself at every turn. It has taken a major love loss and my promise to myself to become a better man, a better person to reveal to me that I really hate Sunday mornings.

I think back to all those times that Mom would drag her hungover, and sometimes beaten up the night before ass out of bed on Sunday morning to get me dressed and sent outside to wait on the Church Bus while she took aspirin, drank a glass of water and went back to bed.

It was so lonely waiting out there on the curb in my only pair of slacks, a button down shirt and my Sunday penny loafers, my “Weejuns”. I hated that wait. I never felt comfortable with the other kids, the church, none of it. So I did what I do best. I pushed it down. Swallowed it. Forgot about it until this morning.

Before today there was always the hope of something. She would text and say “wanna meet for brunch when I get out of church?” or “what are you doing this afternoon, can you help me in my garden?” or there is an art festival downtown this afternoon, want to go?”

Now, not so much. I am on my own to fill my Sunday. And it is me that is getting ready to go to my own church after a lifetime separated from God. It is me that has planned out his day to the hour. And it is only me that is responsible if I end up the day with nothing done, passed out after a full Sunday of day drinking in a puddle of my own tears.

And now that I have acknowledged my dislike for Sunday mornings. And now that I am trying to put myself on a better path. The words Kris Kristofferson wrote about Sunday mornings still ring in my ears, and still ring true, only as a warning, not a prediction:

On the Sunday morning sidewalks
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothing short of dyin’
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down

Tough Out.