Unlike Saturdays, which tend to be filled with a laundry list of must-dos that start fairly early in the morning and take all day to check off, Sundays are a bit more laid back.
They are made for worship. Formal, informal or somewhere in between.
In my little town, you'll find two official places of worship, both equally busy.
The first is the community church. Parishioners show up a respectable 15 minutes before the 9 a.m. service start. The church bell rings. This is a non-denominational event, in a cool, dark building with lovely stained glass windows, and an interior that shows it's been well loved and well-used for decades. It smells a little dusty, but bustles to life when the faithful roll in, Bibles in hand.
Neighbors greet on the sidewalk out front before the service starts, and congregate there again after the service ends, amid the pick-up trucks and green and gold uniforms of Wisconsin on a Sunday. It brings a small town together in a perfect storybook way.
The second is one of the two taverns, just a few doors down from the church. It is here that a bountiful and popular Bloody Mary Bar serves as the altar, and loyal patrons show up every week for fellowship over fried food, Green Bay Packers and Poker machines. To some, this may not seem quite as "holy" as the other, but I suspect it's better attended and more zealously defended.
This service starts before the church bell rings and lasts long after the rectory door has been locked, interrupted only by smoke breaks on the front step and howls of laughter or good fortune when someone wins the Shake of the Day.
Both make me smile, though my version of worship is a little different from them.
It's really as simple as a private conversation between me and the universe as I run. I am able to soak in all of God's glory and feel like a true part of world. I run past the other two venues twice on my out-and-back route, soaking it all in.
I can see the brilliant gold of the leaves and hear the crunch as my feet fly over them. I feel the sun on my face and smell the wind that carries both the faint smokey residue of someone's bonfire from last night and the winter to come.
I sort though my internal chaos, mull over problems, ask for help when I need it. I talk to my dad, I find my voice and I settle my mind. It's praying ... without a kneeler.
I truly believe it is a form of the Gospel.
And I know my version of God approves.
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And, proving that God has a sense of humor, as we drove through my little town late this afternoon, we passed the Bloody Mary Church/Tavern and guess who was leaving? Yes, ladies and gentlemen. A nun. In full habit. Seems that St. Elizabeth Assisted Living Center sent a busload of folks over for the festivities. Amen.
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