It's Monday, which means the weekend is already a memory. So many typical weekends have come and gone throughout the years, that of course, most are a blur. I decided to record one for posterity.
Yes, I count Friday afternoon as the beginning of the weekend. I work from 9 am to 2 pm Monday through Friday in a youth ministry (see link). At 2 pm on Friday, the weekend feels so promising--just getting started, so much to do! Fun ahead! Cleaning Saturday morning? Sure, but there's gonna be some fun somehow.
Friday after school, child 3 (13 years) asks about having a few friends over Sat. night for pizza and a movie. Much emailing and calling ensues, but the details are set in stone. I prepare myself: "They're coming."
Saturday morning, I clean. No fun so far. Then I buy the snacks for the movie group. I will not recount here what I bought because you would shudder at the fat and calories I agreed to feed these girls. But specific items were on the communal list of requests, and since this event is a rare thing for kid 3, I get the goods.
They came, they saw (Pirates of the Carribean), they conquered (all of the pizza plus snacks). They re-arranged my furniture to see the movie better, they laughed and screamed and apparently jumped up and down alot because the wood floors of the house vibrated the whole evening. They left. Here is the motley crue, all 7 of them:
Saturday night: Insomnia. Side effect of prednisone. So is eating. I eat the dregs of the movie group's stuff. My jeans are tighter. I am grouchy.
Sunday: Rare occurrence--I sleep in. Apparently, Jorge feared waking the beast.
Sunday afternoon/evening: Once a month, I work at Oneighty as a volunteer instead of employee. I am registering kids. They come in, get in line and wait to be helped at one of six computer stations. Here's the routine:
They walk up to my station. I say, "Hi! Welcome to Oneighty! What's your last name?" They whisper, "Hmbleisnph." Inevitably, one after the other, they barely speak. So I re-ask everything they tell me.
This ministry is for kids in 6th through 12th grade. Even so, many kids do not know their addresses or phone numbers. Forget the zip code. Last night, one conversation went like this:
Me: OK, what's your middle initial?
Him: Middle initial??
Me: Yeah, (realizing he doesn't know what that means) you know, first letter of your second name.
Him: (Gives me the first letter of his last name.)
Me: Uh, I mean the name that comes between your first and last, like "Bobby blank Roberts."
Him: Ohhhh. OK. What? Oh. Uhh, it's "Junior."
Me: Silence. I pretend to type in the middle initial. "OK, Bobby, have a great time tonight!"
Him: He smiles and darts away into the techno music, the crowd, and organized chaos.
I smile back and say a little prayer that he'll sense the love of Jesus at some point during the evening: "Lord, bless Bobby Junior Roberts, Junior. He is precious."
Sunday evening: Jorge leaves for San Antonio on business. Do not ask me what he does for a living or his title. It is ever changing and ever technical. He is a computer head manager type.
Monday morning: Child 3 is sick. She throws up as I'm typing this. This could be the beginning of a long week.