- No big deal, just smoting that work-life balance.
- And God had created sabbath vibes. And God saw that they were chill.
- And there was dread and there was regret—the seventh night.
…So on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.
After a week full of rising and grinding, God didn’t set an alarm. Today he wasn’t answering prayers or work emails. Both could wait until tomorrow. These were the perks when you were your own boss and set your own hours, and yas King of All Kings, he deserved to wake up when he wanted to.
Rolling out of bed at XI:VL, God felt a bit of a hangover. Yesterday he’d created animals and people, kinda a big day, so God had justifiably helped himself to a few well-deserved chalices of wine when he got home.
No big deal, just smoting that work-life balance.
God gathered up the empties, and was going to take them outside to the recycling, but got a little lightheaded and left them in the sink. “Remember, today is a day of rest,” God reinforced to himself, trying to unburden the pangs of guilt. When the shower didn’t help his Holiness’s achiness, God realized what he needed: BRUNCH.
Even though God didn’t know exactly why it worked, a little hair of the dog would be the perfect antidote to his hangover. “Who came up with that rule?” God wondered, before laughing it off because, duh, he’d written all of the rules at that point.
With all of the plants (Day 3), birds and sea creatures (Day 5), and land animals (Day 6) recently created, some pretty solid brunch spots started popping up around him, and God was craving a Denver omelet. God wondered if he should text Adam and Eve and see if they wanted to come, but decided to roll solo and just eat at the bar. So there God sat, after polishing off the best Denver omelet he’d ever had, and a few mimosas.
And God had created sabbath vibes. And God saw that they were chill.
God strolled back home, proud of himself for just letting go today. When he got home, God plopped down on the couch, put his feet up, and sabbathed the hell out of the afternoon. LITERALLY.
God wasn’t sure what the time was when he awoke, but lightness was becoming darkness. “Let there be light,” God thought, but didn’t command, not wanting to be a one trick pony.
Then, in a moment of weakness, God broke the covenant he’d made to himself and reflexively peeked at his email. There were 47 emails and he began scanning the subject lines:
“Um… where are our clothes?”
“Need help in the Garden”
“NextDoor: Slimy Neighbors Strike Again”
And there was dread and there was regret—the seventh night.
God accidentally created The Sunday Scaries, and as they set in, the gravity of tomorrow became more and more consuming. Meanwhile, the mimosas had turned and the buzz was turning back into a hangover. There was all of the meal prep that awaited. And maybe worst of all, God’s fantasy football team was getting shellacked, despite the fact that he’d “lucked” into the first pick.
Compounding things, there was the regular Monday stuff to do, but also everything in the Garden of Eden that God ignored today. Apparently, his laissez faire approach was not immediately working. Maybe he’d have to create some more people, some that he could employ as assistants, or else really change his tone with those idiot humans. Plus he hadn’t even begun his expense reports.
“Me damnit,” God grunted, and slouched deeper into the couch.