Thursday, May 7, 2015

The Horned Beast.

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There was a lady who went to our church who had a kind of horn thing growing out of her head.  I can't be sure because we were not supposed to stare at her.

You don't stare at people because it is rude.  In church you don't stare because it is rude and unkind and Jesus would never stare.   We were supposed to always ask ourselves, "What would Jesus do?"   Of course he wouldn't stare.  He designed her AND he can see everything.  He knew darn well what she looked like.

I had no clue because every time my eyeballs even looked like they were thinking of scanning anywhere near her direction, I was smacked on the back of the head.  I am lucky I even have any eyeballs left. 

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The thing on her forehead might have been a hat and she forgot to bedazzle it, or she was out of plastic flowers. If they had let me really look, I would have known, and moved on to trying to figure out what the big black thing with hairs coming out of it was on the minister's wife face and why she insisted on lipsticking over it.  Maybe the lipstick just smudged there but there is a reason that you can't find fire engine red concealer.

It might have been part of a dead cow head that she was wearing as part of her heritage and she believed it would ward of evil spirits.  I had read about things like that.  If that was what it was, it really worked.  I never saw a single evil spirit around her.

One day she was my substitute Sunday School teacher and my grandmother, knowing my penchant for needing to know things, and having to ask a million questions, "reminded" me I was not to stare at her.  She said Jesus would not do it. 

Jesus didn't do anything fun and we were always reminded about it.  It was supposed to make us work harder.  It might have succeeded if any of us wanted to be miserable and sitting on our own over in the corner while everyone was having a riot doing things they were not supposed to be doing.  They should have said, "What would Marcia Brady do?"  or The Lone Ranger or Nancy Drew ... or even Davy Jones .  It would have been helpful to have our role model be someone social relevant to our little pointed minds.

So I went to class and I ended up breaking my leg.

Trying to be like Jesus.

I found the only way I could keep my mouth shut and not ask questions about her horn was to not look at her and the only way I could keep from looking at her and therefore pleasing Jesus even more by not staring, was to close my eyes.  So I did.  And when she asked me to hand out pens and papers to everyone, I stood up and took a step into her purse and trying to step with that weight on my leg, I lost my balance.  I feel into the horned lady who fell on  the end of the table, which flipped up in the air taking three of the kids who were leaning forward resting their heads in their hands which were supported by their elbows on the table, and their chairs followed their bums into the air and then flipped them so they performed this synchronized movement in the air where they all shared the same pathway all jumbled together,  and landed on top of me.  Because I had one leg forward and the other caught in the purse (which by the way had to contain 3 bags full of wheat or dried cement because it did not move) and my head and arms were tangled in the horned ladies skirt, my one leg was extended and exposed - the only clear landing space for the tumbling fellow Jesus emulating children.  They and their chairs all landed with a solid thud that muffled my screams which included religious references and the F word.   Of course I knew I was in trouble.  Jesus would never use any of those words.

 My leg was crushed.

The purse had not moved an inch.

I was pretty sure I could see Jesus standing over in the corner, arms folded, shaking his head in disappointment.  I didn't see anyone else arrive at church that day wearing a white sheet and sandals.

It must have been quite the scene.  My grandmother rushed the room screaming my name, knowing instinctively before she even saw what had happened, that somehow it had to be my fault.

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Jesus probably told on me.

I would just like to point out it might have been much easier to stare and ask questions.

Oh and also, " stare stare like a bear .. don't forget your underwear  . . . "  Let's discuss.

I neither stared, nor forgot my underwear.

I acted like Jesus.

I fled temptation.

And I was almost killed.

Don't ask me why I don't go to church anymore.  Some childhood trauma's are just to difficult to talk about.

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