I have a history of recreationally reading other people’s mail. Last weekend, this hobby evolved.
This evolution occurred at the chapel on the first floor of the Catholic hospital where my beautiful but intestinally challenged mother was struggling to toot, and Mom asked me to go downstairs, as her delegate to Christ. My mission? To pray to God and his Virgins for the realization of a proverb…
This too shall pass…
…PASS SOME MOTHERCLUCKING GAS.
I was feeling leery about my field trip to the chapel given my prior experiences with parochial water-boarding.
I was also leery because priests who worked at my Catholick high school work at the hospital. One, a former religion teacher of mine, had come to bless Mom earlier, and I worried I wouldn’t be able to conjure my Satanic powers fast enough to successfully hide from a blast from my past.
(P.S. One time, I chaperoned a bunch of nerds to New York City and one of the sites we went to gawk at was Trinity Church. In Trinity’s doorway, the only Jew on the trip said, ” I can’t go in there.”
“Why,” I asked him?
“My skin will start burning,” he said.)
I made it to the chapel without encountering any fathers and tiptoed inside and checked to see if I could get phone reception. Rats! Jesus was making it so that I didn’t even have one bar, not even half a cross.
Since kneeling in front of a man makes me ANGRY, I looked for a non-man to kneel in front of and pray at and found a painting of the Guaddess in the peanut gallery. I knelt before her and mentally beseeched, “Please, help my mom’s intestine. She cannot die of a giant fart. That will destroy my family. Don’t let flatulence destroy my family. Thank you.” I feel more comfortable ending a prayer with thank you than amen. It feels more…formal and I think deities must like the formality. They must get annoyed by all the affected familiarity their followers adopt.
Standing up, I turned away from the Guaddess and was mincing towards the exit, ready to hide from priests on my way back up to the fourth floor when I noticed a basket and a stack of extremely secretarial prayer request forms lying beside it.
I LOVE IT WHEN THE BUREAUCRATIC AND THE SUPERNATURAL COLLIDE.
Folded request forms filled the basket and nobody was minding these mini-missives addressed to the ruler of the universe and since they’re not under the jurisdiction of the United States Postal Service, it certainly wouldn’t be a federal offense, punishable by federal law, to dump these prayer request forms out of the basket and onto the counter, by the bowl of holy water, and read them while scrutinizing the handwriting, trying to recognize it and learn if any of my former classmates are facing fertility issues, bankruptcy, or herpes.
Most believers who’d filled out a form didn’t go out of their way to personalize it, they just marked the box for “Prayer Requests/for my mother” or “Prayer Requests/for my father” although there was one extremely personalized one for a very troubled person named Mike D. who is just a mess. And also, please pray for Jacob. His mother is desperate.
I had done what I had been sent to the chapel to do so I decided to put in my own request.
I figured that this was better than just marking the financial problems box. This tailored my request for financial gain.
I replaced the prayer request forms in the basket along with my new one and rode the elevator back to Mom. I found her receiving the eucharist by the window and hoped that it would serve as both a blessing and digestive aid.
The Guaddess has yet to make it rain…
but she is sounding Mom’s lower trumpet and Mom has come home from the hospital! This too, lots of this, is passing although I hope that ostrich that attacked me and ate some of my hair the other day is having some issues shitting out my locks.