As he is often prone to do, Coleman woke up extremely early on Friday morning.  I know that the term “early” means different things to different people, but last Friday it meant 4:15 a.m.  I was already up for the day (don’t ask!) when I heard his bedroom door open and the distinctive “thump.. thump.. thump” of his bare feet coming down the stairs.  As we met at the base of the stairs, he signed “cereal,” which, in this case, clearly meant the Strawberry Frosted Mini Wheats that Kim had purchased for him at Reasor’s on Thursday.  When either of us returns home from grocery shopping, Coleman pilfers through all of the bags, taking inventory and making detailed mental notes.  He must have dreamed about Mini Wheats on Thursday night: a pleasant dream in which the healthy grains of the cereal were totally negated by the sugary syrups and artificial dyes that make up the frosting.  There’s no “real strawberry anything” in it.  Trust me.  I read the list of ingredients!

As I filled his bowl with cereal, Coleman picked up his iPad, touched the screen a couple of times, and, using the pleasant, young adult male, synthesized voice of his communication software, stated, “I want to go to church!”  In emphatic reiteration of the point, he patted his hand on his chest a couple of times, the part of his chest where “In His Image” appears on the church t-shirts that he wants to wear ALL the time!  Coleman regularly digs through my computer bag, retrieves my folio of paperwork, rifles through the pages until he finds a bulletin or a sheet of letterhead, and points to the word “church.”

Your attention, please:  Coleman loves to go to church!  “Oh, but Tim, you do realize, don’t you, that we really don’t go to church… we are the church; you see, the Greek word ekklesia means…”  Yeah, yeah, yeah!  Whatever!  You explain all that to Coleman while I keep writing, okay?  Coleman LOVES to go to church.  He loves seeing his sweet friends and the people who so lovingly interact with him, visit with him, and sit with him in the Caring Corner during services.  He thinks about it during the week.  He “talks” about it.  He anticipates it.  He can’t wait to get there.  It means that much to him.

Isn’t that the way it ought to be?