We were worlds apart when my husband and I met. He was the school’s football star and I was the class nerd. He was the social butterfly, and I was just, well, a fly on the wall. His favorite spread was creamy peanut butter and I was partial to chunky fruit jelly.
So naturally, in the way of most couples who have nothing in common, we decided to tie our attraction with a knot in holy matrimony and at least share the same last names.
With the odds of our marriage ending in court, we opted for a change of scenery. Churches to my fiancé and family pallbearer were synonymous to funerals so I suggested that he think of happy thoughts when reminded that we were together “till death…”
Attending church was a weekly part of my prenuptial routine, so I decided that my first official duty as his first lady was not to change my husband but to save him.
“You know the game comes on today.” My husband protested after I announced we would be spending our first Sunday in church instead of on the couch.
“What’s more important, the game or God?”
Realizing he lost the argument like a player who just lost the game, he headed reluctantly to the shower.
“How much longer is this going to last?” said the Stickler-for-time Catholic to the When-the-Spirit-hits-you Baptist during service.
“Hush, we still have Communion!” whispered the When-the-Spirit-hits-you Baptist patiently directing the Stickler back to the service.
Knowing nothing about the order of the Baptist rituals, the Stickler-for-time Catholic proceeded to the front of the church before being told that Communion was not self-service at the Spirit’s church.
“That’s it?!” The Stickler whispered in disbelief at the size of his symbolic last meal. “Well, I guess this will have to hold me over ‘til lunch,” before digesting the whole meal with a couple of swallows and a burp.
The Spirit-hitting Baptist also had to swallow the urge to swat the Stickler on the back of the head. The church had not yet been invited to re-enact the Last Supper, and the Stickler missed the symbolism translating it literally into an appetizer by the sound of his belch.
I looked around to determine if anyone had noticed his transgression and like the woman caught in the very act, he was judged.
I babbled nonsensically to a fellow parishioner, “I come to church all the time. It’s my heathen of a husband who would chase unleavened bread down with a shot of unfermented wine!” Still, she stared at us like two country bumpkins sitting next to her on the pew.
Since it was symbolism, I made my husband pretend to still have a piece of the broken bread and a cup running over when he munched on air and threw back the empty, disposable shot glass when the minister finally invited us to partake.
Sitting between the parishioner who crucified our reputation with her cross looks and my husband arriving early at the Last Supper, I felt like a failure in my first official duty as his first lady of trying to save my husband’s soul that day. We made it back home in time for the game, so I guess to him, all wasn’t lost after all.
yalandarose 