When the radio went off this morning at its usual rude hour, I felt like weeping. I sat still and waited for it to recognize the extreme unfairness of its reckless disrupting of my slumber. Is there no kindness in this world for a 87 year old man such as myself? Do the elderly and infirm not need greater rest than what I had been granted through the night – how dare that clock meddle in my affairs! What about my arthritis? What about my troubled back and achy shoulder? I wanted to grab my spectacles and wrap myself in the robe that I bought in 1951 after graduating college and shuffle down the hall in my orthopedic slippers to the guest bedroom where there is no window for sunlight nor is there an alarm clock to pester me. What’s an old man to do?
It was then that it occurred to me that I’m not 87. I’m 41…and it’s Monday morning…Monday morning…Monday morning. That explains everything.
I’ve only met one person in my lifetime that had the audacity to share with me how much he loved Mondays. They still haven’t found where this fellow is buried. Mondays are not to be coddled and cooed and stroked and embraced. Mondays are meant to be resented and spited and hated and loathed. Mondays are to preachers what Oreos and Butterfingers are to dental hygienists. If you don’t believe what I say today, won’t you recall the enlightened words of that traveling band of theologians from yesteryear, The Mamas & The Papas who sang, “Monday, Monday…can’t trust that day…” See, I’m not alone! Now Sundays, there’s a great day of the week. It’s almost like Monday shows up just to make sure you don’t think for a second that the blessings of Sunday are to go any further. Monday is a taunting, nagging perpetually dateless old maid who is herself miserable and wants to infect the rest of the weekdays with her slimy sliminess. Mondays should be banned and a new day erected to take her dingy little spot on the calendar. I recommend that we call this new day Notmonday and throw a little fiesta to kick it off.
OK, I know I’m sounding more like a 3 year old than and 87 year old but I just didn’t have anything in the thought-tank today yet really wanted to post something in the blog. My motto is, “When you don’t have anything good to say, speak up anyway and post it in a blog so that many will become convinced of your overt lack of spiritual depth.” Now that I’ve vented out my bitterness I’m going to have to get down to the business at hand. It all begins with crawling back into bed with plugs in my ears and one of those light-blocking masks from Brookstone over my eyes. Then I’m going to dream deeply of the life that I had yesterday when I was 41 years old and blessed with an peerless wife and perfect kids, robustly enjoying the Kingdom work entrusted to me, full of excitement and anticipation about the people I get to serve and grateful for everything from the green grass to the mug of coffee in my hand. When I awake, this 87 year old man will down a glassful of his Ovaltine, put on a fresh pair of Depends and start mastering his mind to remember just how incredibly good his God has been to him. ‘Nuff said.
Hope you have a great Notmonday, folks!
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