Creation theory — an alternative version

Not surprising, the difficulty for a person with a warped sense of humor to attend church regularly.  But a marquee, after a recent quake, had caught my eye — Compare our fear and trembling, so there I was.

That day they spewed how great my hand would be if I played my cards right.  Then something they said made me quiver.  Enough that I glanced around for a doorframe to brace myself under.  What if allowing my girls to quit taking piano lessons so many years before had left me in the discard pile?  I felt like the basics — choose right from wrong, love my neighbor, and believe in the Keeper of the Cards — had been trumped by live-and-let-live, gray areas and guilt.

Even Mrs. Sponge made me feel guilty.  She was the hundred-and-fifty-year-old chorister, perched on the pew next to the podium in a bad wig.  She nodded and affirmed every gospel tidbit from the pulpit while I slouched in back, mumbling, “Are you sure?”

“Pray always,” the man instilling fear into me said.  “But be careful what you ask for,” he added, in a lively tone that should have been prohibited.  “You might get it.” 

Sure enough, I recalled some pretty iffy answers…  At thirteen I sat glued to T.V.’s American Bandstand, pleading on bended knee for rhythm.  Mental note — no more mumbling.  Instead of a good beat, I got a big seat.  Later in life I’d beseeched God for a new best friend just before my mother-in-law moved within half a mile.  And every time I prayed for a break, Hot Wheelz fractured his wrist — again.

But I was jealous of Mrs. Sponge.  As I hobbled humbly to Sunday School behind her airy steps, I knew her life was easier.  Even in a bad blond wig.

“Are there any questions regarding last week’s lesson?” asked the teacher.

True to form for me I hadn’t been there the previous week.  But he kept staring at me, so I groaned, “Yeah, why is life so hard?”

He was game.  “Can you good folks help out?” he asked, inviting responses.

“Other people make choices that affect us,” one man answered soberly, his cup of philosophical explanations runneth over.

“We’re here to be tested,” expressed a young mother holding her sleeping newborn, bursting with unblemished hope “and if we’re proven worthy, we’ll abide with Him for eternity.”

“It isn’t so bad.  I know, even with my hardships,” said an old lady one step from life’s finish line, “I’m being blessed every minute.”  I made a note to check last night’s TV Guide.  I’d wager Pollyanna had aired on the Disney channel.

He tossed the question back to me, hoping I’d been inspired.  “Penny,” the instructor continued, “why do you think your trials torment you?”

“God’s practical jokes.  Look at these legs.”  I stood and hiked up my long skirt.  “Only flamingos are envious of these.  And my complexion…”  I flicked my finger against my cheek.  “White, transparent skin.  I’ll never convince the Beach Boys I’m California born and bred.”  I once slapped tan-in-a-bottle goop on these ivory legs.  The stains looked like splotches of infant diarrhea.

All the watch-what-you-say eyes bulged.  The women looked like their control-top pantyhose were too tight.  A few members of the class scooted their chairs uncomfortably (away from me).  Still, a couple tried to wipe back a grin.

“God must have a sense of humor,” I elaborated.  “I don’t get really bad trials.  Just stuff no one else wants.”

Everyone gawked at me.  The grins on the faces of the few brave souls slid off their mouths.  Then their eyes rolled back.  Who is this slightly out-of-kilter person? they must have wondered.

“I had a vision.  I got dealt a Deuce from the deck of life — the card no one draws intentionally.”  My near perfect classmates never batted an eyelash at my disclosure.  “Come to think of it, all my near disasters begin with the letter D — divorce, depression, dieting dilemmas, driving disorders, dementia…,” I rambled.  “If there was a D line on the way to earth, I stood in it.”

After an eyeful of me, they knew the D line had nothing to do with cup size.  “Think of it — fame, fortune, Fantasyland — just two lines over,” I muttered, then consciously laughed.  “I didn’t get meaty sympathy-generating D’s.  With my luck, I’ll die from dry-cracked heels.  Can you see it?  For years leading to my demise, I’ll walk barefoot, snag loose flimsy items with my heels, and drag them across the room.”

One nice old lady never did catch my drift.  “Don’t worry, honey,” she leaned over and whispered.  “One day your kids will grow up, turn their lives around, and come back just like the Prodigal Son.  Then you’ll have all A’s.”

Oh, goody, something to look forward to — Airheads.

They all knew what I was thinking.  It wasn’t easy for a Two of Hearts to hide her feelings.  The class shuddered in unison.  Then they smiled that same little condescending grin you see on the faces of people in the presence of a crazy person.  Or in-laws.

I telephoned my sister that night before dropping off to sleep.  As I recounted my D list of tribulations, Holly must have mentally pictured our family’s most visible asset.  “Where does big butt fit in?” she interrupted, then sighed.  “Oh, yeah, desk-like derriere.”

See, she understood exactly.