A few years ago, my mother went to the funeral of a man who got married one hour before her and my father in the chapel of Saint Patrick's Church in Leetonia, Ohio on June 26, 1948. After the weddings, the other couple gave my father and mother a ride. The other couple were en route to Niagara Falls. They dropped off my parents at a small cottage resort in Mentor-on-the-Lake, Ohio, on Lake Erie. From there, my parents enjoyed their modest honeymoon and took a bus back home to Leetonia.

Waiting in the back of the church at the funeral, my mother was recognized by the priest, who is a friend of my brother's and who was a guest for lunch at my mother's home not long ago when he and my brother were riding bikes and swung by to say hello. My mother is always ready to segue from "hello" to "lunch is served" in just minutes. He said, "I know you, don't I?"

"Does spare ribs ring a bell?" my mother said, giving him a hint. "How about...bike ride?"

"Oh yes!" said the priest delightedly. My mother explained to him how the two couples had been married within an hour nearly 61 years before. They also shared small talk about the coming of spring and how you can always tell when spring is coming by the shoots of tulips peaking out of the cracks in the cold wet late winter soil.

Minutes later the priest gave his eulogy, mentioning how he had just that day met a woman who was married within an hour of the dearly departed (without mentioning that she was seated in that very church.) He said that death is but a rebirth, like spring, which is evident by the shoots of tulips peaking out of the cracks in the cold wet late winter soil.

It's Friday.

All I hear is "Happy Friday" around the office.

​That steams me.

When, I ask you, did we completely take Christ out of Fridays?!