Tuesday was a regular day for me. They usually are.
Tuesdays on my calendar are days when things have to get done and put away, like cleaning dishes. I have staff meetings on Tuesdays. I mess around and have a third cup of coffee. My kids demand tacos.
It’s a rinse, lather, repeat kind of day.
I do not know what Tuesdays mean to everybody else.
Maybe for some, it’s when they head to the nail salon. Maybe it’s the day when they’re the first ones to walk into a barbershop.
It’s doctor appointment day. A trip to the dentist. The day they poke their head out the window, hoping a certain Amazon package arrives.
They could hit up a theater for a discounted early bird movie and popcorn. They could troll the aisles of a local grocery store, bob their head to Bruce Hornsby’s “That’s Just the Way It Is,” and watch the employees put out the week’s specials. Maybe they go to their local Greek diner and get the special. Chopped steak and heartburn for $11.99.
I imagine somewhere, the Norse god Tyr appreciates the recognition of the day that honors his efforts against the monstrous wolf Fenrir.
Tuesdays mean different things for different people.
I know a person whose yesterday was special. Their Tuesday had a deeper meaning.
Their Tuesday belonged to somebody. Somebody who’s no longer with them. It was a day that was, in the words of time-traveling Marty McFly, “heavy.”
A day to mourn and a day to celebrate.
I heard about their day. Saw they had something special planned.
Their loved one loved sweets, so they planned to go by a sweet shop. Make a pilgrimage to pay homage. Fill up bags with penny candy that now cost several dollars. They do this to remember someone.
I never met this special person, but I imagine that chewy Mary Janes, Atomic Fireballs, and Tootsie Rolls were a comforting treat for them. They needed something delicious to get them through the other six days of the week.
I know the feeling. I have treats I turn to on the harder days. Pimento cheese was there for me when my father passed. It was his favorite.
When I returned to the South for the first time after moving my family to New England, I stopped at a Bojangles and devoured a chicken filet biscuit. And every time I enter a Waffle House, I expect to see my friend Don sitting in a booth.
All are balm on my wounded spirit.
These have gotten me through the roughest of Tuesdays. They once got me through the worst Good Friday of my life.
Other times, a small piece of candy has transported me back to a person. I can’t see a sack of sugar-coated orange slices without thinking of my Great Aunt Emmie. If I get a whiff of Juicy Fruit stick gum, I hear my Grandmother’s voice.
‘Let’s ride to town, Jack,” my grandfather would say. “Let’s grab us some Goobers.” We’d hop in his old yellow Ford farm truck and head to Mr. Merrits General Store.
There, we’d find our fix and get back on the road. Many of the adventures would find us stopping at another farmer’s homestead to see about a Beagle hound who was worth a damn.
I’d listen and nibble as my grandfather haggled a man to his breaking point.
Goobers. Popcorn. Nabs. I come from people who knew the importance of decent snacks.
Food makes you think of the folk in your life and I thought about a certain person all day Tuesday. But more than that, I knew I wanted to let them know I did.
I know they love Sun Drop. When I see them, they usually have a bottle in their hand.
When they don’t, I know there’s a cold one resting in the church’s tiny kitchenette. They keep it tucked inside the door, waiting until called upon.
So in lieu of flowers, I left a six-pack of Gastonia, North Carolina’s finest, on their doorstep.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t press the doorbell. I hadn’t even given them a heads-up that I was stopping by. I just wanted to let them know, I know. I get it.
It really doesn’t take much to let folks know we see them. Sometimes all we need is some candy, some chocolate, or some Sun Drop.
Tuesdays mean different things for different people.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.