When we were kids, Sundays were sacred. That is to say, they were the day for our Mom to have some much needed "me" time. This was accomplished by sending the 4 of us off to the local Lutheran church for a sermon and some Sunday school.
I will never forget the week that all 4 of us kids were infected with chickenpox. It was in the middle of a solid Iowa winter when snow sat in a thick blanket on the ground. As Sunday rolled around we assumed we would be staying home, but mom had a plan which enabled us to attend our Sunday services as usual... we would wear our snowsuits.
She bundled us up in our warm winter wear, the type that covers your face completely except for a small, open window where the eyes can peek through. We were then instructed to leave our snowsuits on during church, thus enabling us to participate without anyone knowing of our (contagious) calamity.
All was going well until we started to squirm. And sweat. But the snowsuits remained on, fully zipped and hiding the red, itchy blisters that covered our bodies.
"Do you want to take those off?" we were asked.
"Nope. We like 'em." was our united response. We had orders.
When we got home we peeled off our winter wardrobes and stood there in the living room dripping with sweat like 4 kids who had been caught in a rainstorm, hands immediately reaching to the places that screamed for a good scratching.
We were later rewarded at the kitchen table with pecan-caramel rolls as mom downed a Pepsi (with peanuts).
The next week at church there was a strange shortage of attendees in the children's Sunday school, but you better believe we were there, singing "I'm In The Lord's Army". With gusto.
(And without snowsuits.)