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Why Can’t This Be Sunday? (Vol. 5, No. 8) A few days ago I had planned to meet a friend for lunch. Our mealtimes together are fairly regular and, if at all possible, involve hot sauce, sizzling chicken fajitas for him, almost anything south-of-the-border for me, and Diet Dr Pepper all around. Not seeing his car as I headed into the restaurant, I immediately grabbed a table with direct line of sight of the front door and began my vigil. My soda and chips were soon coming. As I sipped and dipped tortilla chips into the red mash of tomatoes, onions, and peppers, I scanned the door for my friend and began absorbing the sights and sounds around me. I was seated close to the door to the restrooms, so there were plenty of distractions as my fellow patrons filed by to do whatever they found necessary. One particular scene still champions my memory. A young woman was leading a small boy toward the restroom. Their voices carried a great distance over the stained concrete floor. “Why do I have to go see Daddy today?” he demanded. “His apartment is so small and he doesn’t even play with me that much and he stays on the phone all of the time.” “We’ve been over this, Tommy.” I wasn’t certain, but it seemed to me that her face was reddening a bit. Maybe it was just from the exertion of guiding a four-year-old through the constant stream of rushing servers and wandering diners. “The judge decided that you would spend every other weekend with your father. That’s this weekend.” “When do I get to come home?” Tommy’s voice strained over the din of clanking plates and silverware. “Sunday. You always come home on Sunday.” The edge to Mom’s voice was apparent – as if she expected an outburst. “Why can’t today be Sunday?” Tommy and Mom disappeared into the hallway behind me. I never heard her answer – or if she gave one. Tommy’s question still bounces through my mind. A welcome tradition in this My heart beats a little faster during the moments leading to the birth of the baby Jesus. I thrill to see the angels singing on high. And then there’s the annual parade of goats, sheep and even a llama along with their capable handlers. And one by one, the wise men arrive and present their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. It’s the arrival of the last wise man that I look for. He arrives amidst great pomp and circumstance. His servants precede him with feathered fans and carrying boxes of gifts. Behind him he drags a great train of golden material. And when this learned man kneels before the baby and his mother, Mary, his servants pull that garment open wide until half of the stage is shimmering in gold. Tears wet my wyes and I lift my silent thanks for the gift God made. But soon after, my joy fades and I wish I had never come to this play. I know the story too well. I know the suffering this carpenter will endure. I too-well understand the cruelties that people who seem a lot like me will bestow on the Son of Man. I don’t really like this part of the story. I can only ask, “Why can’t this be Sunday?” Then, in the darkness of that place, I remind myself of the words of that young mother. “Sunday. You always come home on Sunday.” And I have hope. Shine On! Copyright 2005 Joe L. Cope
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