Sunday Slow — a Harvest Of Grace Poem by Richard Stopps

Sunday comes as orchards understand -
without command,
without applause.

The Honeycrisps do not ripen
because someone hurries them.
Vineyards wait.
The lake keeps breathing.
Even the gulls above Ontario
circle as though eternity
has all the time it needs.

The kettle begins a familiar hymn,
its soft white breath
rising like morning prayer.
Tea fills the kitchen,
and through the eastern window
the first light settles
across the duvet &
worn oak table
where so much of our life
has quietly been lived.

Before either of us speaks,
your hand reaches for mine.

It has done so
through lean years and plentiful ones,
through call nights,
through operating rooms
where hope sometimes entered
and sometimes quietly departed,
through births that welcomed new voices
and rooms where silence
was the final physician.

Now it asks for nothing,
only companionship.

The old Golden lies nearby,
dreaming with gentle paws,
content simply because
we are home.

Outside, the orchard wears another season.
Spring blossoms…
summer shade…
autumn harvest…
winter branches drawn
like charcoal against the sky.

Every season has taught me
what no lecture ever could:

Nothing precious
can be rushed:

Not apples.
Not children.
Not marriages.
Not healing.
Not faith.

The waves along the Niagara shore
continue their patient conversation
with the stones,
the same sermon
Northern Ontario waves preached -
since before memory.

Listen long enough,
and they remind us
that God rarely shouts.

He arrives
like sunlight through old maples,
like a robin's first song,
like the warmth of a familiar hand,
like forgiveness
that never asks who was right.

For years
I measured days
by operating lists,
consultations,
midnight telephone calls,
emergencies that refused the calendar.

Now I count them differently.

By mornings
when Earl Grey tea cools,
because conversation matters more.

By afternoons
when a book remains open
upon my lap
because watching the wind
through orchard leaves
is its own kind of wisdom.

By evenings
when we walk together
along an orchard row,
grey-haired now,
our shadows longer,
our footsteps slower,
discovering that love
does not diminish with time -
it distills.

One day
memory may loosen its careful grip.

Names may wander.
Dates may fade.
The reasons for entering a room
may disappear before I arrive.

But if mercy is kind,
leave me this:

the feel of your hand
finding mine;

the fragrance of apple blossoms
after spring rain;

the low golden light
settling over the escarpment;

the familiar weight
of faithful dogs
resting against my leg;

the sound of waves
meeting the shore
without ever growing weary.

For these are the things
that have always been - enough.

And when the Great Physician
calls me home,
I imagine no frantic summons.

Only another quiet Sunday.

A cedar lined sunroom,
beyond all seasons.

A table already set.

Friends long missed
rising with familiar smiles.

A faithful dog
running young again across green fields.

And You,
still reaching for my hand,
as together
we walk slowly -

never again
needing to hurry.

For Heaven itself,
I think,
must keep
a Sunday pace