photo © 2009 Bernard Oh | more info (via: Wylio)
Earlier this week at a family lunch, I realized I was the Rodney Dangerfield of wives and mothers of teens. I didn’t feel like I even got respect from the family cat. It was my Unholy Week of disappointment.
Then the tipping point came – a comment about my hair. Fine – I left our house as a mom on a mission. I called my hairdresser and got an appointment within an hour. When I got to the salon, I learned the receptionist had misunderstood who I wanted to cut my hair and scheduled me with someone else. My stylist was off for the day. The sub stylist, upon learning who usually cut my hair, was worried she didn’t have time to do it right. They asked if I could wait longer for a different sub. I left.
But I was on a mission; I would not return home until my hair was cut. I phoned a friend and posted on Facebook, “Who can I find to cut my hair right NOW?” My friend returned my call and said she would cut it if I could wait an hour.
So I went out to dinner alone, steaming the food with my angry mother evil eye glare. How dare they make me this angry during Holy Week? Forget about Easter dinner! I wanted to take a Calgon Getaway Cruise for mothers on Easter Sunday – not an easy thing to find in Evansville, Indiana. So I imagined a land flowing with cheese and chocolate, where I was given flowers all the time just because, I looked like I did 20 years ago when I got married, I was appreciated, and everyone knew I was always right.
My wannabe vacation plans had to stop so I could get to my haircut on time. Half an hour after my haircut began, I returned home with a new do by a new stylist and 4 fewer inches of hair on my head. When I walked in the house, I told them, “Didn’t like the hair? Problem solved.”
Angry mothers, especially of the fighting Scot-Irish variety to which I belong, don’t generally elicit charming sweet nothing responses from their family. So I threw myself into my work, taking care of clients and business instead. My husband was taking care of his business, and I would take care of mine. It was not a pleasant couple of days.
Then Holy Thursday services began. My son was a server, and I was his designated driver. As my son handed towels to our priest as he washed the feet of 12 in our congregation, God grand slammed me with a baseball bat of realization.
The first Palm Sunday, the crowds cheered Jesus. When He washed those feet, He knew what would happen. He would get no respect. His friends would fall asleep when he needed them the most, one would betray him for money, and another would deny him. The crowds who had cheered “Hosanna” would scream “Crucify him!”
He didn’t cancel the first Easter because they didn’t deserve it. Jesus didn’t cancel the first Easter because I didn’t deserve it. We sang last night that there was no greater love than a man who would give his life for his friends.
He loved us and gave us – gave ME – the greatest gift of all time.
Now it’s Good Friday. Besides honoring His greatest gift and remembering His sacrifice tonight, I’ve got some planning and cooking to do.
As S. M. Lockridge says in this video, “It’s Friday. Sunday’s coming.”
I’ve got an Easter feast to plan and prepare for and with my family. They deserve a kindler, gentler mother. And a better Friday.