What will you be wearing when Jesus knocks on the door?

WARNING: This is mildly sacrilegious. Well, maybe it is pretty sacrilegious. Please go no further if you do not have a sense of humor. [Sorry, I may have told this one before. Whatever. It is a good story.]

Some five or six years ago I was working in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon and heard a knock on the door. When I answered, I saw a small Mexican child. He smiled at me and asked, "Do you want to buy some tortillas?"

"Of course we do," I responded (I am not a girl to turn down homemade flour tortillas).*

I walked into the house with the tortillas and asked DH if he wanted one for breakfast. Of course he did.

This weekend commerce went on long enough for me to feel comfortable asking the boy his name. "Jesus," he said.

I went in and told DH as he ate his warm buttered tortilla. "Well, if his name is Jesus, this must be communion," he commented.

"Please stay one lightning bolt away from me when you talk like that," I replied.

Anyway, for years Jesus would come on Sunday afternoon and we would listen for the knock on the door. Then he stopped coming.

Every now and again I would see the father driving in the neighborhood or run into them at the farmers market. But now they were selling tamales and they weren't making house calls.

Then another youngster arrived at our door one day. "Are you Jesus' brother?" I asked.
And he was.** But he only stopped that one time. We did not see them or hear the knock on the door for months.

NOW, the system has shifted again. On the last two Saturdays a knock has come at the door around 8:30 a.m.  Each time it has been a teenaged Jesus bearing tamales (And we are IN!).

But I am not always dressed by 8:30 on Saturday morning. If I am up late the night before I sleep late on Saturday (late for me is 6:30 or 7) and I sit around drinking coffee and watching the news in whatever I wore to bed the night before (I am careless about clothing. I might wear a gown or a t-shirt, whatever I find when I stagger off to bed at midnight or later). Upon hearing the "knock" I must yell to DH to answer the door as I refuse to meet Jesus at my backdoor while wearing my "jammies" (or worse).*** But, now that I may start expecting him, I will be better prepared.

Tamales made fresh today - still warm.

And, because we were to meet a friend for a late breakfast, we only sampled the tamales - and called them good.

Saturday morning breakfast "appetizer." The plate is a little messy from removal of the corn husks...

NOTES - I am sorry. These notes are longer than the walk...but then you have consented to walk along with me. Skip the footnotes, if you want (I really only planned to share the thought of warm tamales being delivered to your door, but these rabbit trails beckoned).


*From my birth until I was about 4 years old, we lived in a rental house next to the M family. I believe the M's had a child the same age as each of us. My friend was S. We played together every day. And when her mother was about to make tortillas, we hung around the kitchen - waiting. Mrs. M would test the griddle with a drop of water. We could hear the sizzle and see the steam - and know what was coming next.

There is nothing like the sound and smell of homemade tortillas.

S and I would edge closer to the stove and peek (we were little, remember) up over the edge of the range to see the tortilla getting brown on one side, then flipped to the other side.

Mrs. M would always look at that first tortilla and say, "Well, this one is too brown. The first one always is. Do you girls want to share this tortilla?" We would say nothing, but nod our heads "yes." She would then carefully tear the tortilla in half, give one part to each of us, and shoo us out of the kitchen.

I remember once I had just received the warm half-tortilla and my mother called me home for lunch. I crammed the entire thing in my mouth. Trouble was, my mouth was so full that I couldn't chew. I got home and Mom looked at me, "Have you been begging food at the M's house?" I shook my head, "No..." But Mom knew (mothers always know).

**Of course, I have slept since then and cannot remember if it was "James" or "John" or something else.

***The concept of appropriate dress for meeting one's Savior (or his mother) has been raised (with me) before. I was looking for a church while I was "great with child" in 1983. When I say "great with child" I mean it. I gained over 65 lbs. And it was hot that year and I was wearing some variety of maternity tent on most days.

I visited a nearby modern-looking church one Saturday evening only to discover the air conditioning was broken. I should have exited then, but I figured the priest would take the temperature into consideration and move things along. But no, this was an old and cranky priest. His first comment has stayed with me these 30+ years - "If you think YOU are hot, imagine what it is like in these vestments!" (Again, that was my cue to leave, but I missed it and stayed on.) This guy believed in suffering and penance. We were a captive audience and he was going to make us pay.

When we FINALLY got to the sermon it was all about women and their disgraceful attire (like shorts and crop-tops). Now, I (an innocent of scanty attire for most of my life) was almost a puddle in the pew and trying to figure out how to escape when the final comment (for me anyway) was made, "Just what would you do if you were standing there in a bikini and the Blessed Mother appeared before you?"

I started laughing, imagining what I would look like - a hugely pregnant woman in a bikini visiting with Mary. I then took my leave of that priest and that church.

[The child was indeed baptized - at a chapel at the local military installation. The next two children could not be baptized there as we were no longer "active duty." We decided to have them baptized with their cousin in another town. But that is another story...

OK. If you REALLY want to know. We had to get permission of the parish (where we lived, but did not attend) to have them baptized at another parish half-the-state-away. So, after 8 years of Catholic school and 3 years of Catholic university and enough theology classes for a minor (and after baptizing one baby already), I was ordered to baptismal class! The next class was scheduled the weekend after the baptism. So I got written permission to take the class at the same military installation where we couldn't baptize the children (Does this make any sense? Nope. I didn't think so.). Then DH was out of town and the husband HAD to be present for class. So I took a "stand-in" husband. He was a co-worker who agreed to be my "husband-for-a-day." I bought his dinner. Yes, pray for me. It does appear that I need it.]