No, no, he was wearing something far better. He was wearing a short-sleeved green and yellow t-shirt with a silhouette of Jesus Christ carrying the cross. Apparently, Handy Hank is rather fond of religious parody, since a shirt that looks like this normally advertises farm equipment, but the caption said “Dear John.”
I know that I should look at this shirt and think that it’s “neat and hip” to proclaim my love for Jesus, but I do not take kindly to my Lord and Savior being likened to a brand of tractor my father does not buy. This reminds me of the church groups in college who would bribe you with free food, then tell you that you need to go out and point out the wrongs of others. That you need to go out of your way to tell people that they are wrong, and you are right, and they need to be just like you.
Well, I’m not perfect. And, there is no doubt that the Lord would not care for this blog, and a lot of the thing I do and say, but that’s between me and the Lord, because I have a personal relationship with God. That’s exactly what it is, personal. It’s like Jesus is an old friend. If I saw Jesus across a crowded room at a party, I would make eye contact with him, maybe give him a nod, a smile, and a wave, and make my way over to him. I would not feel the need to shove and stiff-arm people out the way as I barrel my way through the crowd screaming at the top of my lungs. If you were really good friends with Jesus, you don’t need to draw attention to yourself that way. I’m not perfect and I’m not going to pretend I am, so I don’t need to seek out the sinners and the whores of my campus and show them the errors of their ways. That’s what chlamydia is for.
I also don’t need to convert them into my way of thinking or try to show them that I am somehow better. I am one of those people who believe you can actually be a good person without believing in Jesus. I try to respect other people’s religious beliefs. If you are a good person, and you don’t believe in God, I’m not going to make it my life’s work to convince you. I’ve got other shit to do.
I guess that I, and really no one else, would not be a Catholic today if the apostles saw things the way I do. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t see things my way either, and maybe that’s why they showed up at my door.I grew up in the middle of the country, six miles from the nearest town, and that town does not even have 400 people in it. Almost everyone I knew growing up was Catholic. Needless to say, I have never come into actual contact with a Witness. Mom had mentioned that they came to the house once, but she politely turned them away. Like my dad always says, talking about politics and religion are a waste of your breath and time, because no one hardly ever changes their mind.
So, I was unprepared a couple of days before Christmas when Josh and I were packing up our truck to go back home to our parent’s houses. We were moments from leaving. The truck was running, the garage door was open, and the suitcases were loaded up. I realized I forgot my cell phone downstairs in our bedroom and ran down to get it. Josh followed me into the bedroom.
“Did you forget something too?” I asked.
He smiled as he pulled out his new shotgun out of the closet. “Wouldn’t want to forget this.” He was eager to try out his new gun on his parent’s farm.
The doorbell rang upstairs and we looked at each other. “You’d better answer it,” Josh said, raising the gun as if I’d forgotten it was in his hand. I wasn’t raised around guns and am not very comfortable with them. I nod in agreement and run upstairs, trying to ignore how much this shortens my breath and wonder who it could be. I figure it’s UPS for the millionth time this week. I am a regular Internet shopper and the holidays were no exception. I had done much of my gift shopping online and even sent some gifts ahead to Iowa. I am diligent about tracking my packages so I wasn’t expecting one that day but thought it possible that maybe one had slipped my mind.
I’m excited as I swing open the interior wood door and look through the glass outer door at a teenage girl I don’t recognize. I figure she’s selling something. My neighborhood gets hit up a lot for fundraisers and I’m a pretty big sucker. Just tonight I bought three fun packs of candy from a young man who volunteers for an organization that keeps kids out of gangs and in school. He just enrolled in college and is working for his tuition reimbursement. This aligns with what I do for a living so I had to buy the candy right? Right? I promise I’ll take it to work.
She starts talking, but I can’t hear her, because I can’t open the door. The door handle has been missing for two weeks and the vice grip Josh promised (because it’s too much to hope for an actual fix, looks like our wedding registry at Sears was for naught) is not applied yet. I pick up my flailing and very excited dog, Killebrew, and start gesturing at the door.
“You have to…ouch….I can’t hear you, you have open the.. GODDAMMIT KILLEBREW, YOU’RE CLAWING THE HELL OUT OF ME! I’m sorry,” pointing to the handle, “You’re going to have to open the JESUS KILLEBREW CALM DOWN!”My dog is going crazy at this point, and I also hear Josh mumbling behind me on the couch. The girl politely smiles and opens the door a crack.
“Sorry, I see you are getting ready to leave, but I just…” she stops and her eyes avert behind me. “Just wanted to…um…”
I assume it’s because of my psycho dog she is distracted. I try to smile and say, “I’m sorry, we are about to leave. But it’s ok, I have a little time. What can I do for you?”
She shifts her eyes to me and Killebrew, and behind me. “Here, please just take this and read it,” she says and hands me a small booklet. “Have a good day.” She says and she shuts the door and walks away.
“Happy Holidays!” I call after her and finally let down a convulsing Killebrew. I glance down at the booklet.
“A Perfect, Non-Violent World” is the title. I open the book and see words like Jehovah, heaven, anger, and violence. Ah, I see what she wanted. I look directly behind me at Josh to tell him we’ve just been Jehovah-ed, and he snaps something into place of the gun he has been messing with the whole time.
He smirks at me. “Trigger lock was on. That would have sucked.”
I turn crimson. As if taking the Lord’s name in vain wasn’t enough, my husband was fiddling with a very large shotgun in her plain view. To add insult to injury, I wish her a happy holiday, something they don’t believe in.
I’m embarrassed at first, but as we drove the two hours home I got over it. They probably have seen worse. I really have to hand it to those Jehovah kids. According to people still involved with my old high school, it’s like pulling teeth to get Catholic kids to do anything anymore.
Well, Little Miss Witness, I’m sorry my husband and I reinforced your belief in the evil of non-Witnesses. But, I’m not sure why you want to convert more people if only a certain number of people will be saved. Doesn’t that ruin your odds?
Maybe I will read that booklet. I have an hour set aside at the gym tomorrow morning.
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