Meeting Jesus in our PJs

Jesus came again to our home.
He came at the appointed time, 8 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. My beloved was already up and gone, busy at the office. However my Maria, Buddy, and I were still in our bedrooms, yawning in our two-piece pajamas.

In Nepal I learned pajamas had their origins in South Asia, the word pajama derived from the Hindustani paijamas or pyjamas. To South Asians, pyjamas are the loose day trousers men and women wear. During the Imperial Era, the British adapted and spread the comfortable pants from India to the world, morphing it into lounge wear, adding loose fitted shirts. *

Nowadays folks the age of my Maria consider pajamas as casual daywear. But yours truly still considers them sleep attire. Thus when Jesus rang the doorbell and my daughter yelled to me who he was, I hid in the room. Meanwhile, my girl ran downstairs, still in her sweatshirt pajamas, to open the door.

I peeked out from my first door bedroom as he stepped into the foyer.

I knew his smiling face, knew his first name, knew the room he needed to be in was a mess.

"Could you wait five minutes?" was my feeble plea to him.

"You want me to wait outside?"

I nodded. "Give me five minutes, okay?"

"Sure." He stepped outside.

In a mad dash I shoved the piles of mess behind doors and drawers and got myself decent. Rushing a comb through my hair, I opened the front door and found Jesus shivering. His hands shoved deep into the pockets like Buddy in his new jacket, only with the hood over his head.

This morning the outdoor thermometer read 39 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius), icy for the Deep South.

In a half hour I finished breakfast while Jesus went to work. I needed food to clear my fuzzy mind. Jesus was so patient with me, explaining what he was doing slowly as his accented speech was not getting through to me.

Later I spoke with my Maria about his lingual accent. "Hay-sus is Cuban," I said. "Like Ricky Ricardo, right?"

"Come to think of it, he did sound Cuban." She knew that particular accent since she once had a Cuban Spanish Language teacher.

My Maria wasn't hampered by how she was dressed when she let Jesus in the house. I was the sleepy maiden with an empty oil lamp. And now, thanks to Jesus, one less satellite receiver box to pay for.

Do you think I had to clean up the mess, my mess for Jesus to come and fix things? I think I should have come to the door, just as I am, without one plea...
What say you? Or sing ye?
* Pajamas, Wikipedia Encylopedia