Molly is one of the joys of my life. Like my other daughters-in-law, I consider her nothing less than a true daughter of mine. Molly and I have known one another since she was twelve years old. She was and is our oldest daughter Rachel’s best friend. She is married to our oldest son Matthew and mother of two of our grandchildren. Molly is beautiful and bright and kind. Maybe this is one reason I was so shocked by her words as we sat having coffee one afternoon.
“I don’t know why, but lately, I feel like I’m in a Mexican prison.”
Yeah, that’s what she said to me. A Mexican prison. Did I mention Molly and her family are staying with us right now? Did I mention she was obviously referring to staying here with us feeling like being in a Mexican prison? Did I mention I would have never allowed our son to marry her if I had known she had been in a Mexican prison at one time? I mean, obviously she must have been because how else would she know how it feels?
Ok, maybe she wasn’t actually ever in a Mexican prison. That we know of anyway. And maybe I spewed coffee out my nose when she made the comment because, well, it was kind of funny. But I still don’t understand how she could say such a thing.
My father raised me to show hospitality to people in a way that makes them feel comfortable when they are within our walls.
We raised our children to behave a step above the common criminal, Mexican or otherwise.
Even our animals know the score.
A Mexican prison, indeed.