Yesterday, Mrs. Wigglebottom and I walked over to the Presbyterian church*, which means we go by a small Lutheran church (which is having a pancake dinner or a porkchop breakfast, I forget which one, in honor of their 75th Anniversary) and the Free Will Bible College.
Those Free Willers–Free Willies? No, I suppose that’s a different kind of college–are so nice. We saw three of them and they all smiled and seemed genuinely happy to see us.
Oddly enough, Mrs. Wigglebottom was not that excited to see them. She couldn’t even deign to acknowledge them, because she was entranced by the kid singing. I was entranced by him, too. And I’ve been thinking how nice it would be if young men regularly sang to themselves where I could hear them in such beautiful confident ways.
We didn’t see any Presbyterians, though I’m guessing there’s a gaggle of them, by the amount of Presbyterian vans ready to take them anywhere on a moment’s notice.
Perhaps they need all those vehicles to take them over to fight with the Methodists. You don’t hear a lot about good inter-denominational street fighting, which is really too bad. Even if there wasn’t some kind of rumble, there could be a bake-off or a “Who can sing the most verses to ‘O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing’ before going insane” contest.
For pink slips! God, that would be so awesome I might go back to church for that.
When my parents lived across the street from the Catholic church, someone would invariably park across our driveway–not in our driveway, which would have been understandable, sort of, but across the end–thus trapping us without cars for the length of Mass. I always thought, as revenge, that my mom and I should put on my dad’s robes, and sneak over there with milk and brownies and start a competing communion line.
Looking back on that, I guess it’s not that funny, but my mom and I used to laugh pretty damn hard about it.
*If for no other reason than to give me practice spelling ‘Presbyterian.’