Throwing Poo

On Sunday mornings, my brother and I would lie quietly in the upstairs bedroom we shared, hoping that on that day maybe, just maybe, the inevitable call would not come.  The wind-up alarm clock on the small table separating our beds was both an angel of hope and a harbinger of doom; each passing minute increasing our hope that the moment of truth might pass unnoticed, and each minute bringing us closer to it.

I remember wishing that the clock was somehow slow, or that we forgot to wind it and the time was actually much later. Or maybe today is daylight savings time.  That one has saved us before.  When is that again?

A noise, some rustling downstairs, would snap us back to attention and we would freeze, fearing the slightest sound or squeak of a bed spring might give us up.  Maybe it was just the dog.   Maybe it was nothing.

Then, almost without fail, the thunderous vibration of our sticky wooden door being yanked open would echo through the upstairs like a quick roll on a kettle drum, filling us with dread.  My mother’s voice followed, like nails on a chalkboard, piercing the air and curling our feet.  

"Mike!  Pat!  It’s time for church!”

Only ten more minutes and we’ll be too late to make the service on time.  Lie still. Pretend we didn’t hear.  Pretend we’re sound asleep and maybe she will leave us alone.

 “Let’s go, boys!  Now!!!”

Suddenly and decisively, our hope for a lazy morning filled with Sugar Pops and Popeye cartoons was lost.  The only thing left to do was turn our futile attempt at passive resistance into petulant resignation. 

So it was for first eighteen years of my life, until the day I left for college.  Every Sunday my mother, a true believer, a born-again Christian, would drag us from the comfort of our warm beds to worship service.

Forget the dogmatic inconsistencies, the selective interpretations and the unapologetic arrogance; that is why I hate going to church.  I have a visceral reaction to it, like chewing aluminum foil or getting kicked in the yam bag.  If you want to get me into a church, there had better be a damn good reason.  A wedding, a funeral, a giant meteor plummeting towards earth; these are reasons I will consider.  And there better be an open bar afterwards.

Needless to say, when the call came late last week alerting us that Nerdy Squirrel’s mom was going to be honored at her church on Sunday and suggesting we attend,  my reaction was less than enthusiastic.

“How about if I just let you punch me in the face?”

Nerdy frowned.

“Or your mom?” I pleaded.  “She could punch me in the face.  You know she’s always wanted to. How about that instead?”

“I go to stuff for your family all the time”

“Not church,” I argued. “Depositions, infectious disease inoculations, psych wards, sure.  But never church.”

“I don’t like it either, but we’re going,” her tone implied that the conversation was over.
 
As if overcome by some childhood demon, I went silent, standing motionless until she brushed past me and left the room.   Once out of sight, I slunk off into the bedroom and quietly reset the time on our alarm clock. 

To Be Continued…