Today Aisling went out to gather the mail -- I got my copy of Dorie Greenspan's Around My French Table for the new internet cooking group Kayte and I joined -- and brought in a funny little letter, addressed to my husband in a childish, unformed hand.
"What do you suppose this is?" she asked dubiously, holding the envelope up so I could read it. I squinted at the handwriting -- it looked like maybe it could be Dayden's? Although why our nine-year-old nephew Dayden would be sending my husband a little letter with no return address was beyond what I could puzzle out on a Friday in the mid-afternoon.
I'd really like to say that Aisling and I waited until my husband got home from work before we tore open the envelope to satisfy our vulgar curiosity about the sender, but, well....we didn't. We ripped it apart like a hyena on an antelope and a little invitation fell out.
"You're invited to a Bar-B-Q!" it announced luridly. I flicked it open and noticed that the sender was none other than Satan, the Prince of Darkness himself, and this barbecue he was inviting us to was one of the eternal kind involving a lake of fire and everlasting damnation. It told us that we could tell Jesus to "stuff it," and that if we really wanted to tick God off, we could drink -- I gave a moment's thought to the twelve bottles of Killian's Irish Red my husband had recently placed in the laundry room's fridge -- get tattoos and then commit suicide.
The invitation told us of another party going on, one that would be taking place without the four of us. The only way we could be invited to the other party would be to repent of our sins and be saved. And I guess the anonymous sender figured that there's no possible way we could possibly be saved, since we have that big old statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary out in the front yard.
I'd like to tell you that this is the first time we've gotten Bible tracts in the mail urging us to repent of our wicked ways, but it isn't. That statue is like a red flag to a bull for some people. Although as I recall, this is the first time we've received an invitation to eternal torment from the Old Scratch himself, which made it an interesting thing to happen on an otherwise boring afternoon. So after I took its picture to commemorate the occasion, I dropped it into the trash and said a little prayer for all the Christians out there who think they're the only ones a-goin' to heaven. I tried not to be huffy about it, reflecting that the sender thought he was doing something nice, but Jesus knows this kind of thing really wears on my nerves. Yet somehow, He manages to love me anyway.
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