I’m not known in the faith circles as the spiritual giant. I try hard, but more than not, I’m the comic relief. I’m the little ant that tries walking in line with the others, but gets sidetracked by just about anything. As a result, sometimes you’ll find me at church, not necessarily for the high spiritual moments as much as for the camaraderie.
This past Sunday was one of those days. I slipped into a seat in the back pew a little late. I’m thinking, church really is one of those places where “it’s better late than never.”
One of the men speaking that morning had written a reminder on the bottom of his first page notes. “Turn the page,” he read out loud.
“Wouldn’t you think he’d just know that,” giggled my friend on the left, innocently, not a mean bone in her body.
“Remember,” I, definitely older and crustier, whispered back, “he’s a man.”
Warning: The next part may be a little squeamish for men. If you can’t handle it, skip down to the guy section.
After the service, I sat between two ladies, talking softly about a place very near and dear to a woman’s heart — her chest. One had had a lump a few years ago and gone through treatment. The other was just starting the course.
Having just had a mammogram, and a callback for more tests, I was more than slightly interested. The gal who performed my second mammogram must have been recently released from prison. She was gruff and mean. “If I’d known you were going to hurt me this much,” I shouted, “I wouldn’t have come back.” Just like the waiter who spits in your soup after you complain, she cranked the vice another notch.
“The doctor asked if he could take a little tissue,” one friend commented about her ordeal, then she went graphic. “They strapped me on a table while I lay on my stomach, and hung the boob in question through a hole in the table.” My friend is bustier than I am. I worried if they gave me the test, there might not be anything hanging through the hole. Boy, that would be embarrassing.
“They had the nerve to ask me if I was comfortable,” she added and gave a smirk.
“I went to a clinical trial on depression once,” I admitted. “They asked me how I was doing when I signed in. What’d they think?”
“They hoisted me up above their heads and stuck a clamp on my dangling part,” my friend continued. “I couldn’t even take a swing at anyone. If I had, I would have looked like a fledgling seagull.” I wondered why she picked a seagull.
My head grew fuzzy. I didn’t even know they had right and left boob tables. “Then they take a gun,” the other friend interjected, “and shoot the exposed area. You feel the percussion vibrate through your body.”
I’m rethinking this second opinion thing. I’d asked my dad once for a second opinion, and he laughed, “And you’re ugly, too.”
Now for the guys:
I walked out of the chapel into the church lobby a little light-headed. Two men chatted. I’m not really sure where the conversation had already been, but I loved where it was going.
“I told him not to get my hat dirty,” Mike, the first fellow said.
“You know he did,” another one laughed.
“I told him I’d go to my car for a baseball cap,” Daryl, the third guy, said in his own defense, “but Mike offered me his…”
“And I told you not to get it dirty,” Mike repeated.
“I ran to second base and twisted my ankle. There I was bent over in anguish and his stupid hat fell off my head,” Daryl recalled. “All I could hear was, ‘Pick up the hat! Pick up the hat!’”
So that’s why I go to church, lots of fun people, and every now and then a spiritual moment.
Related posts:
Print This Post
