Sunday's Sermon

Sunday morning 7 AM and Ed’s door is closed,

indicating he’s up and not wanting to disturb us.

Ordinarily, he doesn’t get up until around 8.

“Why are you up so early?” I query as I peek in his door.

“Thou shalt not intrude,” he warns emphatically.

What was he in a past life?

Where does he get his vocabulary and wisdom?

He loves aviation and astronomy.

Maybe he was an astronomer.

Something scientific for sure.

Or maybe a preacher.

“You’ll have to deliver your invitations this afternoon,”

I tell him as I fix his tie for church.

“Not when it’s raining cats and dogs.”

“I don’t see a cat or a dog.”

“It’s just an expression –

of the moisture,” he explains.

“I don’t think I’ll have nightmares after watching Deep Impact,”

he chatted while getting ready for bed last night.
“It had a happy ending.

I sure love that movie.

Morgan Freeman was in it.”

“You sure look good, Mom.”

“I’m so fat I can’t stand myself.”

“You shouldn’t put yourself down.”

Las weekend when Verla was staying overnight,

Ed comes into his dad’s bedroom, asking,

“Mind if I use your facility?”

 “OK, but you owe me one,” Dad says,

“I can use your bathroom sometime.”

“Nope. It’s for me and ‘Guests’ only.”

Ed was getting ready for church last Sunday morning

when the top button fell off his shirt.

“Do you know where your button is?”

I asked, attempting to help him solve the problem.

”OH” his eyes light up,

“Do you remember when we used to play that game?

It was kinda lame.”

You can tell he hadn’t thought about it for a long time.

He goes home teaching to the Stuarts in the home we used to rent.

I asked him if he remembered when we lived there 29 years ago.

“You always complained because it was so dark and dreary –

for a whole year –

so I couldn’t enjoy it,” he remonstrated.

He liked his bedroom.

It was big and had a commanding view of the entire valley and lake
(that used to be).

He came downstairs after showering, saying

“You’re not going to believe this, Mom.

You’re living with two babies.”

He’s right there.

He and his dad are something else.

I don’t know if it’s joking or bickering.

Constantly.

Ed was complaining about emptying the dishwasher as usual,

saying he was sick of doing it.

“I’m sick of fixing three meals a day for 80 years,” I declare.

“You won’t be 80 until October.

I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he cautions.