Whenever I need to get away, I pack a bag and head up to my dad’s old cabin in the woods.
For years, I’ve been doing this, chopping wood to feed into the stove, watching the snow fall, and reading by candlelight.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said to his framed photograph.
It was hanging a bit askew, so I straightened it.
Something fell from behind it.
A letter:
“Dear Son,
This cabin actually belonged to my brother Tom. He’s buried under the floor.
Love,
Dad”
So, I thanked my Uncle Tom, tossed another log on the fire, and made some coffee.
Tag: religion
The Temple
There are 100 steps up the hill to get to The Temple Of The Golden Monkey.
At each step, acolytes are challenged by the monks to tell a story 100 words long.
“You have a week to come up with one!” shouts the temple priest.
Upon hearing the acolyte’s story, the monks invite that student to take a step up.
But if an acolyte fails to tell a story, they are sent back down the hill to return to their village.
Or try again.
It takes almost two years to ascend the steps and become a monk.
Ready?
Then begin!
Oh You Fools
Alexander Pope said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, but I can’t come up with a single place that an angel would fear to tread.
I’ve lived in some really bad places, and I’ve seen plenty of fools rushing around them.
But angels are supernatural, powerful beings. They serve God as his messengers and soldiers.
There’s nothing here that an angel couldn’t handle.
Why they don’t, well, that’s one of those Free Will arguments I won’t get into.
Or perhaps it’s all the power lines. They don’t want to get their big white wings tangled in them.
Stags Of The Star
Human Resources warned us: “Chris isn’t feeling well.”
Instead of his usual attire, Chris came into the office wearing a loincloth and feathered headdress, and he tapped my desk with a golden scepter.
“KNEEL BEFORE CHRISOCOATL!” he boomed.
I figured what the heck, so I kneeled.
“ARE YOU VENTURING TO THE STAGS OF THE STAR?”
Stags Of The Star? Stags…
Starbucks?
“I will journey forth and bring back plenty,” I said.
By the time I got back with everybody’s coffee order, he’d torn the heart out of the receptionist.
I took five bucks from her purse to cover her double-latte.
Baptists
My grandmother always said that the problem with Baptists is that they don’t hold them under long enough.
So, I put my scuba gear in the trunk, headed over to First Baptist, and struck a deal to assist with baptisms at the local Y.
Now, instead of just tilting a person back in the water for a second, we keep them under for 20-30 minutes.
Switching tanks underwater takes some skill, but when we picked up an old-fashioned diving suit, air pump and a hose, we were able to keep people under for hours.
My grandmother still thinks they’re assholes.
They Paved Paradise
The Trinity Church was torn down ten years ago. After years of serving Downtown, the commuters went to their suburban home churches while the pews collected up the homeless and drug addicts, who stripped the place bare to sell for more drugs and booze.
The church’s parking lot is still there, though, as a private contract lot, and it’s always full. There’s even a car washing valet and a mechanic for doing oil changes and other simple little maintenance tasks.
And the old priest, who walks from row to row during the day, blessing the cars, wishing them safe travels.
Bluesman
The story that Robert Johnson went down to the crossroads and sold his soul to The Devil to become the greatest guitarist in the world is totally bogus.
However, the story that Rabbi Hiram Goldberg sold his soul to God to become the greatest washboard player is absolutely true.
Why he wanted to become the greatest washboard player is a bit of a mystery, but when given the option to drag your fingers along a washboard with a hillbilly band and to stick your mouth on a disgusting ram’s horn every year, I’d choose the washboard, too.
Play, Rabbi! Play!
Not A Prophet
The press says that God talks to Jimmy, but that’s nonsense.
Jimmy can hear God talking, but he’s only overhearing what God is saying.
According to Jimmy, it’s a constant stream of mathematics. At first, Jimmy tried to copy it down, but he didn’t know mathematical notation.
Until the researchers taught him how.
Formula after formula, solution after solution. His notebooks contain tangled nightmares that Bertrand Russell and Einstein couldn’t have comprehended.
I watch him write, then erase what he wrote, write again.
Jimmy laughed. “God stutters.”
The lightning was quick; a charred desk and ashes were all that remained.
Power of prayer
I knelt down by the bed and barely had said “Dear Lord” before I heard a loud booming voice shout:
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“God?” I whispered.
I SAID WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“I just wanted to say thanks, and I look forward to tomorrow,” I said.
BULLSHIT.
“Seriously, I’m cool,” I said.
WELL, HERE’S A FUCKIN BICYCLE SOME KID KEEPS ASKING FOR, BUT THE KID’S AN ASSHOLE, SO FUCK HIM.
And a bicycle appeared on my bed.
“Amen?” I said.
DAMN STRAIGHT.
It was kid-sized. Useless to me.
I donated it to charity.
The Wrong Saint
We needed to dump this house. Quickly.
But the market’s a mess, and everybody’s low-balling us.
Someone told me that burying a statue of St. Joseph in the yard will speed the sale of a home.
So, I went to a Christian bookstore and bought a statue.
It wasn’t Joseph, though. It was Saint Winefride, the patron of payroll clerks.
At first, I barely noticed them, but after a week it became difficult to mow the lawn while navigating the colony of accountants camping out on the grass.
But, in the end, one of them offered to buy the house.