Sewing on Sunday

I hope Mom wasn’t watching. “You’ll have to pick out every stitch with your nose,” she professed, “if you sew on Sunday.” I don’t even know if this is humanly possible, but I believed her.

And until today, I never sewed a stitch on Sunday. To make matters even more troublesome, I went shopping for the yardage on this day set aside as a day of rest. Maybe mom was right, because a congregation of crazy people had assembled right there in Jo-Ann Fabric and Crafts. Possibly from removing stitches with their noses.

One lady skipped to grab a tab from the take-a-number dispenser to lock in her position in the fabric cutting line. “I’m eighty-five,” she announced. I was number 13 (you could have guessed that one). So how could the next consecutive number be 85? Then I realized she was bragging about her age. Her cart was full of styrofoam spheres. “I’m making Christmas balls.” It’s only April. I don’t know that making balls of any kind is really something you want to publicize.  She didn’t need an answer; she just needed a warm body to listen. “I’ve been making them for forty years. I’ll bring one in for you to see next time you come in.” Well, I was afraid she was gonna miss me. Glancing up, I had already made a promise at that moment to myself and Mom. I wouldn’t be coming on Sunday again.

I got in line to pay for my half yard of fleece. It was forty percent off. Now if God didn’t want me to shop on Sunday, would he have reduced the price? Too much to consider. I had already made the promise. The lady in front of me pointed to another female in the 99¢ specials aisle, “My friend’s casing the joint.  She’s on leave from the crazy house.” It was easy to believe her.

I put my half yard of fleece down and ran. Sale or not, Mom’s words are too haunting. I’ll send my Jewish husband to buy the fabric. He won’t have to worry about Mom’s admonition. His big day is Saturday. Our mixed marriage works out well. We’re good with our Creator.  I shop on Saturday and he shops on Sunday.