I thought of the painting this morning and began to wonder why I liked it so much.
I believe, looking back on it, that the serenity of the scene was what drew me.
Now it may be that the man driving that buggy was not as serene as I pictured him. Perhaps he had three little one and a wife in there with him and they had all struggled to get ready and out the door in time to make it to services that morning in the snow.
But there was little traffic on the bridge, and the church would be warm and special.
He could ride along, bundled up behind his faithful horse, an animal that knew the way. After all, every Sunday, he made the same trip.
Six days this man did labor, each week, but Sunday was a special day. It was The Lord's Day, the time he looked forward to each week.
A time to still his heart and mind and soul, a time to praise and sing, a time to listen for God's voice in the service or just in the quiet of a reverent spirit.
It may not happen every Sunday, but it was always anticipated.
He and his family would get there early. They could sit in the little church and be quiet. The outside sounds would be muffled by the snowfall.
It was good.
It was Sunday morning.
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