I didn't make my bed

I have made my bed every morning for the last 19 years. Why 19? Well, I've been married for 19 years. When I got married, suddenly making my bed seemed important. Now it is a habit. Something I do automatically. And if I don't, hubby does.

But I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead, we slept in. We let the sunlight slowly fill the room, tickling our eyelids until we finally gave in to its call.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead I talked and talked and talked to hubby while we brushed our teeth, tidied our hair and chose our clothes for the day. Then we went to wake up the kids.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead I talked and giggled with my kids while we ate breakfast. Cereal, toast, eggs. A healthy dose of chocolate milk for me. We watched the birds outside the window. We laughed at the cats watching the birds outside the window.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead I listened to a young man bear testimony of a faith he longs to share with the world. I watched a mother and father slump shoulders under the burden of rearing a family of faith in a time of cynicism all the while beaming with quiet pride at a job well done--so far so good.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead I curled up on top of wrinkled sheets and drifted in and out of a beautiful rest while listening to my children playing happily together--a rare treat.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. Instead I sat out on the front porch and watched the sunset paint the sky in pink and orange.

I didn't make my bed Sunday morning. And at the end of that day I looked at the pile of pillows and blankets and smiled completely satisfied that for once my priorities were right.

Do you make your bed every morning?

What is your ideal Sunday?