Sunday

Sunday is my official day of rest.  Aside from continuous napping, I restrict my activities to motorcycle riding and lawn care.  If I must “do” the landscaping on Sunday, I make it a point to do a half-assed job.  That way I do not feel so much resentment over the intrusion into my life.

This Sunday was special.  My schedule included meeting my daughter and her family at the North Park Shopping Mall for my grandson’s hastily rescheduled birthday party.  That his great grandmother has passed away on his exact birthday bummed us out.  We wanted to get back to a normal life for our newly minted Six year-old as soon as possible.  We were to convene at 11:00 am.  We could celebrate until we left for the chapel and my mother’s Rosary by 4:30, so we had a ton of time.

I felt no guilt over lying in my bed, listening to the morning show on CBS and scanning the Sunday newspaper.  I sipped tea and rested up for the big day to follow.  It was cloudy and rainy.  Storms lingered, left over from a night of mayhem.

My telephone rang.  Did you ever notice how many bad things begin with a telephone call?  I answered confidently.  I felt all the bad news that was remotely possible drained from my universe by recent events.  Hubris filled me.  Naturally.

“Good Morning, Sarah!”  I said cheerfully.

“Hey, Dad.  I just called to say the birthday party might have to be postponed.”

“What on Earth for?  Is everything alright?”

“Not exactly.  Our power went out early this morning.  The house is smoking and the plumbing is leaking inside the house and the Fire Department is here.  They say the house might burst into flames any time.  BAWWWW - BOO HOO HOO!”

“Great Googly Moogly!  Is everyone safe?”

“Yes, but we had to gather all our belongings and put them in the car.  We are almost homeless!”

My daughter calmed down a bit and I offered to drive to Ft. Worth, just in case she needed more storage space.  I would bring my truck along with me…

I raced westward.  When I arrived at my destination half a dozen of Ft. Worth’s finest milled about.  A large fire truck parked, lights flashing, in front of my daughter’s house.  The firemen were using some high-tech infrared devices to track heat sources lurking in the attic and behind the walls.  Their diagnosis?  Lightning struck the electric meter causing a large amount of current to pass through the house through the wiring and copper plumbing.  Much of it was still smoking when I arrived.

I hung out until my family headed for a nearby hotel – their home for the next few weeks.  The firemen stayed until the electric company found time to drop by and kill the electricity at the pole.  They stayed with the house until there were no signs of extra heat to be found.  God Bless them!

Weak but relieved, I returned home and collapsed.  Before I knew it, time to head for the Rosary arrived.  I dressed, but inside I felt weak and wrinkled.  I drove to the funeral home arriving a little early.  Soon, friends, family, grandchildren and neighbors flooded the chapel.  The young ones gathered at their great grandmother’s casket to discuss what might be happening.  “It is sort of like being asleep,” said one.  “Yes, her soul goes to heaven but I think they’ll put her in the ground.”  Another one said.  “Is she coming back?”  “No, I don’t think so.”  It was a touching scene.  At that moment, the gift of innocence seemed more precious than gold – or eternal life, for that matter.

In time, the Rosary began.  The children moved to the very farthest pews where they could continue their discussions uninterrupted.  Before long, the Deacon leading our prayer service was shouting to be heard over the din in the rear.  Scowl as he might, the little angels in the back paid little attention.  I think someone finally went back there and explained “SHUT UP!” to them.  All was quiet for about a minute.

As eternity approached, we reached the end of the service.  In ones and twos, people began drifting back to the parking lot and normal[ish] lives.  It was dark and rainy.  The forecast called for more of the same tomorrow.  “Perfect,” I thought.

I specifically avoided thinking of the havoc the grandchildren might raise during Mass.  They are all good little heathens, as far as I can tell.  Besides, what could be a more powerful reminder that life goes on?

And do not worry. Eventually, my grandson got to celebrate his birthday at the Lego store.  Reports indicate he was exhausted after looking at and playing with as many blocks as he could.  Also, I hear a large bag of blocks found their way home with him.  Good for him!

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