I have a very serious matter to report. I had a brain scan yesterday. The results: they found nothing. That’s probably why I couldn’t figure this one out. “A cowboy arrives at a ranch on Sunday, stays three days and leaves on Friday. How is that possible?”
Now don’t be reading ahead to get the answer. You should get this one. Here’s another one our priest told. It’s one of my favorite one-liners. “Three men walked into a bar; you’d think one of them would have noticed it.”
When my father died most of us gathered in Florida for the wake and funeral. My dad had a booming voice and loved being the center of attention. He was at his best in a crowd. Feeding and entertaining people gave him great joy. So, of course, there were crowds of people flowing in and out of my mother’s house—a real party atmosphere. The sounds of feasting and laughter emanating from her small house must have seemed irreverent to the neighbors. By the way, the answer is: the coyboy’s horse was named Friday. But we knew our dad was there with us. The laughter helped to make the pain of his loss a sweet sorrow. We knew his suffering had ended and he rejoiced that his spirit of celebration would carry on in our togetherness. There would be time to cry and mourn, but right then, at that time of passage, it was a time to laugh. I treasure those memories.