Reclaim Sunday: A Time to Reset, Renew, and Reconnect with God

Sundays are busy—the obligatory errands, emails, and driving kids everywhere, all the while preparing for Monday. I never liked Sundays because they were just too close to Monday. To be honest, I felt a little trapped by Monday's proximity, which for years kept me in this perpetual state of avoidance. What was I avoiding, you might ask? That four-letter word- rest.

I am knee-deep in my manuscript for my book and the want to get it done. There is also the daily call of life in grocery shopping and cleaning, and making sure that everything is prepared for the week. I had forgotten that there was a time, back when the kids were little, when I made Sundays a mandatory day of rest. Now, it’s all teenage chaos—games, practices, and a revolving door of friends.

For the last several weeks, I have been reading my friend Mary O'Regan's new book Padre Pio and You, a fascinating look at the great and often misunderstood saint who is known for his strict adherence to church doctrine and flaming temper. To be honest, I was afraid of Pio, almost too afraid to read Mary's book. I didn't think I'd like him or have anything in common with him. To be honest, I was just downright scared of him.

I felt it an honor that Mary had asked me to review the book and couldn't say no. Her talent for writing and penchant for storytelling have an Irish old world charm that you would only find in small towns and the nooks and crannies of a lost society. These cherished stories are lost in time, neatly tucked away by modernization and death in the digital age. I cling to writers like Mary, whose work is steeped in truth and personability, certainly a lost art by today's standards. So Pio it was- I was going to get to like him whether I liked it or not!

I began to read the book every night, hoping to connect with Pio in some way. It wasn't long before I was engulfed in his story, his humble beginnings, and his rocky road to the priesthood. As I read further, He didn't seem so far away anymore. He was reachable, which had to have been the touch of the divine. I hung on to every word each night and allowed Pio to speak to me and teach me through Mary's recounting of his life.

Towards the end of the book, there is a scene in which a woman is sewing, and Padre Pio sees her on the front porch and stops in his tracks. He scolds the woman for not keeping the Sabbath and rips the sewing material out of her hands. The woman is utterly stunned. Later, we learn that she comes to understand the sanctity of the Sabbath — a lesson she credits to Pio’s fierce protection of it.

I was moved by the story, convicted a little on how I had left the Sabbath behind- that I hadn't protected it at all costs. My heart was heavy, longing for the days when my kids were little and we stayed home after Mass — playing games, taking naps, and cooking Sunday dinner together. The memories moved me so intensely that I began to cry, no longer afraid of Pio but now feeling convicted by Him.

Pio was the fierce defender of God's day off
Even though I felt convicted, I didn't act on it right away. It wasn't at the forefront of my mind. But as God always does, he continued to send me little reminders, God-winks, courtesy of Padre Pio.

I left it on the shelf and went to get my hair done, something I had not done for myself in a long time. I was talking to my hairdresser about my recent anti-inflammatory diet update when she mentioned a small farm close by that sold raw milk and cheese, and other natural groceries. The place sounded divine, and I had hoped to find an opportunity to take my family at some point.

The idea of going to that farm lingered in the back of my mind long into the night. I wanted to find a way to go, but the weather looked terrible, and I didn't know if time would permit.

I rushed to morning adoration before Mass to sit with the Lord and express my gratitude. Pio had been there too, because when I left the chapel, I smelled the intense perfume of roses following me out. At the time, I thought it might be Mary, but the smell of these flowers was different. They were of incense and freshly cut, delivered just for me.

This is when I remembered the sabbath.

It was clear that Pio would be the hound of heaven as he was to the woman who was sewing. He was reminding me that it was Sunday, a time to rest. I exhaled, thinking of the farm and a chance to gather my three teenagers and my husband to pick up some locally grown food and maybe even go pet some goats.

It was time to reclaim Sunday
As I drove back home, I couldn't help but think that I only had two more years left with my oldest two kids until they went off to college. The little one was only one year behind them. Somehow, time had become magnificently important and a currency that I was not willing to barter with. Pio's love for me had won me over.

Returning home, I announced to our family that after mass, we were going to the farm and petting zoo and that I was reinstating the sabbath rule for Sundays. I braced for the tongue-lashing that I was prepared to receive, the uproar of the teenage crowd. Instead, I got smiles and yeses with nods that reminded me of earlier years of our Sundays together, filled with sticky fingers from sweet treats and other family adventures.

We were on our way to the farm just a couple of hours later, and arrived to pick up raw cheese, freshly laid eggs, and some fig, berry, and guava jam. Then we headed to see the animals- goats, pigs, and the bobsy twins of emus galavanting in their extraordinarily awkward bodies. Behind me, I could hear the kids laughing even though the rain had come in and we were all getting wet. It was of no matter to me, though, because the giggles led to my tolerance of the wind and droplets that began to brush past my face.

Some will argue that Pio was a strict traditionalist who adhered to the rules of the church to the point of scrupulosity. That somehow his love for Jesus and Mary, and the Church, was intense to the point of madness. What those same people do not understand is that it was this discipline that led him to sainthood and the ability to perform many miracles.

Miracles are not just the cure of illnesses or the restoration of families. Miracles are also in the small things that God grants us, which become the big things. The return of my Sunday sabbath brought peace and healing back into my heart. Pio had read my soul and knew I needed it.

In Judaism, when someone dies, we say, May his memory be for a blessing. I'll say the same about Pio as the tears stream down my face this rainy Sunday, with committed devotion and gratitude for what he did for me.

Saint Padre Pio, pray for us!