The Meadow 169 Sunday Ritual Heather Arbuckle Its Sunday morning, I should be in church. Instead, I’m parked at the entrance of Golden Creek, the forest trails just outside of the city. I stared silently at the cross dangling from my rear-view mirror, and my stomach felt hollow. I left the car and began to walk down the path, surrounded by wild flowers and the hymn of buzzing bees. I found a flat tree stump overlooking the creek, just below the shade of a blossoming apple tree, my bare feet in the water. Embracing the current’s cleanse, I consumed an apple from the tree as my sacrament, and rejoiced in the bird choir. The sun reigned down upon my face, wrapping me in its warmth. No longer did my stomach feel empty, it was whole. My state of calm only interrupted by a sudden phone call. You overslept for church again, Sweetheart, my dad preached. I looked around and inhaled the fragrance of my wild cosmos. I know, Father. I know.
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