The very first thing I ever remember writing about was ‘my weekend.’ It was the title for our Monday morning’s writing session and the whole aim was to produce something that began with a capital letter and ended with a full stop. I would write, “I played with my dog and made mud pies in the sand pit,” and then the teacher would tick with her red pen and put a gold star or smiley face if the writing was neat and the picture coloured in nicely. “That sounds like fun,” she would write back and I would hope that next Monday I could tell her about something even better.
It’s Sunday evening and we are on our way home. The sun is descending large and pink on the right. On the left, banks of purple cloud are tumbling up against blue mountains like waves rolling into shore and a luminous light is washing fields of green and gold. Most of our children have fallen asleep; satisfied, content, exhausted. It has been the weekend and I am nostalgic as I write, once again, not to be marked or given gold stars, but to share the joy. All these decades later, the weekends have come and gone, and some are extra special.
This one began when friends from out of town arrived to stay on Friday evening. Nothing quite like kissing the cheeks and hugging the bodies of those you don’t see all the time. We sat around the table eating lasagne and salad – hearty, unpretentious, comforting. Easy conversation, reminders to take hats off at the table and “Excuse me, have you washed your hands?” between laughter, banter and “Please may I have some more?”
We scurried to stack dishes and make the kitchen presentable again as neighbours arrived with desserts and instruments, ready to take part in a family worship evening. We filled the lounge with tunes and voices and readings from the Words of Life. Candles flickered and feet tapped and the out-of-tune piano was coerced back to life. A spontaneous, unrehearsed gathering became something not dissimilar to drinking clean water from a freshly dug well. When the music ended out came the treats. It’s always wonderfully reckless to have puddings and hot drinks just before bedtime, from time to time.
Saturday morning began slowly, a gift in itself, and then some of us mothers and daughters met at a local market where we tried on clothes and bought gifts and fruit and good coffee. When we, eventually, arrived back home I saw one husband staring at us in the car and I lip read his words to the other husband: “They are STILL talking!” They cannot believe we have so much to say. We continued our conversation whilst we prepared the lunch and ate the lunch; so much in life to be inspired and amazed by, excited about, hopeful for. So many dreams that will one day come true.
Our friends had no sooner left and we set off to the farm where our family live in amongst wheat fields, orange orchards and banana plantations, surrounded by mountains. The driving in the city is getting on our nerves and heading into the country where our eyes can rest on the horizon is like taking a restoring tonic. Everything that was on edge and out of balance goes back into the middle line and the weights settle equal once again. Several carloads of friends drove out to join us the following day. We braaied, played volley ball and squash, went for walks, rode bikes, napped in the sun and some brave souls even swam in the pond. We ate chocolate brownies and played with our friends’ new puppy. In fortiesh years not much has changed then. A perfectly lovely weekend still involves baking mud-pies (but for reals now) and playing with dogs. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Gold star, smiley face, tick, tick, tick. Next Monday I will tell you about something even better.
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever. (1 Chronicles 16 v 34)
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