Sundays

Sundays in Norway are somewhat like snow days in the Northwest.  Life just stops.  Everything is very quiet.  Nothing is open, except for a gas station here or there.  Hardly anyone works, except preachers, emergency personnel and the poor folks down at the gas station.  Options are limited, which I discovered, is a good thing.  There is a kind of freedom in having nothing to do.  Families are together.  Hikes happen.  Walks in the rain take place.  Neighbors chat quietly with other neighbors.  It’s a recognized day of rest and Lord help those who disturb it.

It’s against the law in Norway to mow the lawn on Sunday, or do any kind of outdoor activity that would otherwise disturb a neighbor.  It’s also against the law to do laundry or hang it out on the line on Sundays.  I’m glad the “Sunday police” didn’t catch me before I learned about that law. 

Norwegians buy fresh baked bread each and every day, therefore, the few gas stations that are open, also have a bakery behind the counter.  Norwegian’s won’t eat day old bread.  I’ve never been fond of gas station mini-marts before, but it’s hard not to love them when they always smell like fresh baked bread. 

The only downside to Sundays is, if one is having guests over for dinner that night, one must be absolutely certain they have everything they could possibly need to make dinner, since there is no mad dash to the grocery store for that last forgotten item. Besides bread, the gas-station mini-marts pretty much just sell ice cream and candy.  I tried to plan my meals around ingredients I was sure were also stocked in my neighbor’s pantry, just in case. 

We attended church every Sunday while we were living in Norway, which is more than most Norwegians do.  The churches all have cafés in them so people can linger, have lunch, coffee and cake, and just chat with their friends.  There’s rarely a rush on Sundays to get anywhere, unless it’s to have dinner at someone’s home.

I swore, when we moved back home to America, that I would protect the sanctity of Sundays.  I loved how simple they were in Norway, as they truly became a day of rest.  Once we moved back to America, however, it was just so much easier to stop by Costco after church, since we were already in town, fill the car with gas, and run a few errands.  We’ve even been known to do laundry and mow the grass on Sunday, and our neighbors have never once complained.  Is that real freedom?