What in the world does one wear on Palm Sunday when it’s 35 degrees and windy? I can’t wrap my head around winter clothes when we’re one week out from Easter. Wearing wool sweaters in dark and muted tones with a suede skirt does not say Hosanna in the slightest. First world problems right here, people.
I know, I know, it’s not about the clothes, but I couldn’t help lament my wardrobe this morning. I settled on a cream cable knit sweater, a long orange/red skirt with butterfly stitching and cream tights. I just can’t wear dark brown or black on Palm Sunday. Can’t do it.
I would like to say that I dismissed my wardrobe woes with spiritual guidance from our minister. No such luck. I didn’t hear one single word he said. Here’s the deal. There wasn’t the usual separate children’s worship so Addison had to sit with our neighbors as the grandparents weren’t there this week. Dear Husband and I were both in the choir so I had a bird’s eye view.
I could tell he was using the offering envelopes to draw robot and jedi battles. Nothing new there but then I saw him stand up to get more envelopes further down the pew. The woman sitting next to him had a look of disdain as he reached across her for each new fresh supply of envelopes. This happened three times, once during the prayer. I saw him whispering to the dad he was sitting with several times and I could actually hear him a couple of times.
I was ready to jump out of my seat. I was so hot that I imagined myself levitating from the choir loft, hair standing on end, choir robe flapping in the wind as I swooped down on him to proclaim in a demonic voice that he was in serious doo doo. I’ve been watching too many vampire shows. Because I don’t have the ability to levitate I opted for the evil mom stare.
All I could think about during the entire service was his deplorable behavior while with our neighbors. My lovely friend tried to reassure me that he wasn’t really that bad but I imagined her husband hearing about the same amount of the sermon as I did. None, because he was shushing my kid every 3 minutes.
I didn’t have to raise my voice once on the car ride home. The look on my face said it all and by the time we got home he actually sat himself in the corner. His punishment (besides the self-inflicted corner sitting) was to go with me to the grocery store instead of play with this friends. After the torture of the store with me I eventually let him go play with his buddy for a little bit. Dear Husband offered that maybe I was being a tad too harsh. That’s a possibility but I’ll be damned if he does this again next week during the Easter service.