Last weekend was unpleasant. There was the surprise call to play a wedding. One of my cantors didn’t show for practice. My stomach was bothering me, forcing me to leave Mass (and hold it up for a couple minutes) and cancel out of a friend’s birthday party. The Bears were skunked. The fill-in priest didn’t show at one of my Spanish Masses, forcing the deacon to hold an impromptu Communion service. (The priest is in his 80s; we’re hoping he just forgot and is OK but haven’t heard yet.)
But amid all that, there was a pleasant blip that nearly wiped it all out. I stopped at home between Saturday Masses to take medication for my tummy. Stupid tummy. I was throwing some stuff in the car when a minivan pulled into the driveway.
It opened to reveal a high school friend, his wife, and their two kids. They were at Mass nearby and just happened to see me, so they decided to stop and visit, much to my delight.
Their 2-year-old was chipper and chatty. Their baby, not so much. The mom and dad and I quickly caught up on everything going on as the kids got bored because the grownups were talking.
It couldn’t have lasted more than 10 minutes. Literally, it couldn’t, because the impatient 2-year-old started yelling, “Bye!” repeatedly, forcing their parents’ hand.
It’s a simple thing, I know. Perhaps even mundane. But in a weekend that was miserable, this helped me feel much, much better than grouchy.