When I was in the fifth grade, I was picked to play a soldier in the crucifixion scene of a school play. Perhaps a bit overstating the importance of the role, though more likely just unaware of the school’s expectations (or lack thereof), my mother thought to rent- from a costume shop- a roman soldier getup. In retrospect, it was all a tad ambitious. There was an armor piece with carved-out, defined pectoral muscles (all the way down to the very detail of the nipples), one of those helmets with the red broom brush thingy starkly down the middle, an elaborate robe with tassel, and shoes that would apparently become fashionable for women well out in the future.
The day of the play (which is in our school gym, on the basketball court, mind you) comes, and I’m in the bathroom putting on this ridiculous bit of hyperbole. My friend Michael- the other soldier- somehow ended up changing in another room. The direction to us was clear, though: you have ten minutes, meet at the cross.
(A note: all of our practices were done in school uniforms, no dress rehearsals)
I dress. I sigh. I walk to the cross. Michael, God bless him, is wearing a white bed sheet cinched by his father’s belt and a pair of flip flops. I look like a fargling extra from Gladiator. Our expressions are of dueling dejection. Everyone is amused, as they should be. We carry on the performance, burdened more by our individual, and shared, experiences of embarrassment than the weight of the too-heavy Jesus selected for the role by Sister Anne.
So yeah, if your Monday stinks, you still don’t feel as bad as we did at that moment. Cheer up, soldier.
(I'll have a SRHPY later on after I drink eleventeen cups of coffee)