Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Great Gramma sent mailbox murdering son some money this past week. His eyes lit up like diamonds while his version of sugar plums (beef jerky, hamburgers and gum) danced in his head. He could hardly wait to spend the wind-fall.

I waited and wondered how long it would take until he remembered that he's going on a mission and that this check was meant to help him prepare for said church service. I grew seven new wrinkles in the process of patience, and finally took it upon myself to remind him. He was atheistic in his recognition of truth.

"Huh? What do you mean? How do you know? I think it's more of a "congratulations" kind of thing, Mom."

"What do you mean? Like a "congratulations for being YOU?" I responded.

"Yeah. Like for being a good kid and going on a mission and stuff."

"Yeah. No."

He really struggled with this news. Wanted proof. I had to sit down for a moment and regale him with stories of our family's religious rituals. He still gazed absently at my forehead, so I yanked on a chunk of his bangs to pull him back.

Finally, he received a testimony of all that I said, and as a pig to the slaughter, retrieved the money from his wallet and handed it over for future "preparation." I patted his head. Good piggie. Nice piggie. Poor piggie.

Anyway, I'll talk to y'all later. I'm going to buy some gum.

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