Dodo Eggs

Sunday morning…tiny motes of dust swim through slanted columns of light that pushed through the window curtains. Each bit took my thoughts in a different direction.
Am I breathing that stuff in? How much does each one weigh? Is it skin off that guy over there?

I thumbed to the maps in the back of my Bible and studied the path of Paul’s third missionary journey again. The room was filled with the smell of old paper and jasmine perfume. Every time I squirmed a bit the battered, metal folding chair would creak.
Hmmm, I wonder if Paul ever contacted a travel agent?

I was trapped in the Sunday school class called the “Late Bloomers.” I should have escaped to the class with for my own age group but it was too late now. They had just taken six thousand prayer requests for various aches, pains and other more serious matters. I know God listens and is aware of each one but I couldn’t care less about Silas Gretchmore’s gall bladder.

Have I ever read the book of Numbers? I wonder what it’s about?

Then it was time for prayer. At the front of the small room, an elderly voice droned, “And Lord, we also pray for Eugene Blatamer’s gallbladder as well. We pray that you would give him comfort as it has been removed.”

I wonder if those around me are praying or getting a head start on their afternoon nap?

I didn’t know any of the folks for whom they were praying and it wasn’t easy to sit still.  My most recent bout with “prehistoric” jock itch was occupying most of my attention. Each time I adjusted my hindquarters the chair would release another squeak – like the cry of a pinned rat.

Mmmm…I can smell the casserole dishes from here. This potluck is going to be great.

My wife should be sitting beside me but she woke up with a headache and flu symptoms. I might have stayed with her but my Grandmother-in-law persuaded me otherwise. “Oh yea, you can come with me. You’ll enjoy the prayer request time where each member gets to air their latest health problem.” He smiled and poked me in the ribs. “I’ll be sure they mention your fungus problem for prayer.”

“…and Lord we pray that you would give Matt comfort from his unmentionable request. Lord, we don’t know the exact nature of Matt’s problem but we pray for Your hand on whatever it is bothering him…Amen.”

I sat half listening to the lesson on fleeing from temptation. Listening to all the metaphors to running, I couldn’t help wondering when was the last time anyone in the room had fled from anything.

After the closing prayer, I offered this question to my grandmother-in-law and a few of the older gentlemen around her. “When was the last time you actually picked up your knees and ran?”

They looked at each other smiles creasing their faces. No one could answer my question. I pressed the issue. “Well why don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to run again even if it’s for no apparent reason?”

A man in an out of date polyester suit pointed to me. “We don’t run because we’re old. Once you get old – you’re done running. Actually, you’re done doing a lot of things.” The guys around him chuckled a bit making me feel uncomfortable.

“So basically what you’re telling me is that once a man is old, that’s it, he’s old. The sign a man is officially old is that he can no longer run.”

Another man said, “You’re only as old as you feel and if you feel old, you ain’t running.”

One of the wives scooted her chair toward the men. “So you think that’s what makes a man old huh? Well then, what makes a woman officially old?”

This answer I knew. “Ma’am, if you look at all the other women’s hair you’ll notice it’s permed into spirals so tight it would take a can opener to reach their scalps. That’s how you know an old…I mean mature woman.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change for a second then she smiles and said, “Well, look who just talked his way out of the potluck.”

Nothing says, ''The sex appeal is gone!'' like a good perm

• Old Age Made Easy
• Religulous Thinking
• The Truth & Media Bias
• DumbKnuckle – Lesson 3
• Tough Choices