Sunday Mornings
I'm having a very rough morning. I've been tagged and I will get to that. I just am having a rather difficult time thinking of ten things that make me happy. It's just been a rough morning. It will pass. The best way I know to combat this overwhelming feeling of melancholy is to think of happier times. And who best to help me through than Gramma? She may have died fifteen years ago, but she gave me a lifetime of material to reflect on. So I'm going to reach back, grab a memory or two and write about it here. It's odd but some of the funniest things I've ever written have been when I've felt the worst about life. I guess I need the comedy to help me through.
My Gramma was seriously religious. She loved Jesus. She had a picture of him above this cabinet thingie in the dining room. Jesus could have been an extra guest invited to each meal, for his picture sat before the head of the table. My Grampa was some sort of minister at one point in his life. I think he was some self-ordained guy that declared himself more knowledgable than anyone when it came to God. And man could he preach some fire and brimstone, oh yes he could. Gramma on the other hand was more wise about it, more reverant.
On some Sundays, my mother would wake me to dress me up. I hated getting dressed up because I hated those fancy shoes. They hurt my feet and I would inevitably end up with blisters on the back of my heel. My mother, in an effort to get me to wear them, would tell me that I would get to wear the lacy socks. But if I wore the lacy socks, I had to wear the fancy shoes, for they went hand in hand... err foot in foot? I loved wearing the lacy socks, so I'd give in to wearing those awful shoes, even though they made me so miserable I could barely walk by the end of the day.
And so, dressed up as we were, Grampa would take us to church, just me, him and Gramma. We would sit in the middle of the centermost pew, Grampa and I on either side of Gramma. This was good, because it meant that only Gramma could hush me. Grampa could only give stern looks.
Then the preacher would begin, which meant it was time for me to fidget with everything from the hymn books to those awful shoes, until Gramma had had enough and would tell me to "be still!" Tch, fine. And that's when my eyes would wander to Jesus hanging up on the cross behind the preacher. There he was. Jesus.
Today I don't go to church much. Why? Well, for a multitude of reasons, one of them being that Jesus is too cute. Plus he's the perfect man. He's understanding and forgiving, he loves you anyway. Perfect, I tell ya! What's not to like? I mean, yeah I know, he's the Savior and all, but why does he have to be so darn cute? I am sorry, but loincloths are attractive to me and there he is all up there in a loincloth. And when he's not wearing a loincloth, he has on an easily dispensable robe. If he took off that robe, he'd be naked! Naked Jesus.
Yes, I am going to hell.
"Gramma, don't you think Jesus is cute?"
"Hush!"
"I think he's cute. How long does he have to hang up there? Doesn't that hurt?"
"Ari, hush!"
"Are you going to share the treats with me this time?"
"It's wine, you can't have it."
"Are the crackers made out of wine? One little glass isn't going to hurt me. Why can't I have treats too?"
"Shhhh, now be still."
Then the little trays would be passed around. On the little trays were fancy doilies. On the fancy doilies were little baby crackers. Just my size. Grampa, who was really not known for his table etiquette would politely take one. Gramma would take one next and put it in her mouth in the most reverant way. And then there was me, glaring at both of them.
"You're supposed to share! You just want to hog it all for yourself!"
Grampa would give me the evil eye. Next came the little tiny cups of wine. Just my size. But did I get any? No.
"Boy, I sure am thirsty."
I would catch Gramma looking at me out of the corner of her eye, before she tipped her head back ever so slightly to drink the wine. Defeat. Pure defeat. No wine for me.
"I'm going to tell Jesus you're not sharing with me," I'd proclaim, right before I laid my head down and slept the rest of the sermon out.
That was me at five. Asking my grandparents to supply me with alcohol while I flirted with a statue of Jesus. No wonder they didn't take me to church every single time.
Needless to say, I still think Jesus is cute.
My Gramma was seriously religious. She loved Jesus. She had a picture of him above this cabinet thingie in the dining room. Jesus could have been an extra guest invited to each meal, for his picture sat before the head of the table. My Grampa was some sort of minister at one point in his life. I think he was some self-ordained guy that declared himself more knowledgable than anyone when it came to God. And man could he preach some fire and brimstone, oh yes he could. Gramma on the other hand was more wise about it, more reverant.
On some Sundays, my mother would wake me to dress me up. I hated getting dressed up because I hated those fancy shoes. They hurt my feet and I would inevitably end up with blisters on the back of my heel. My mother, in an effort to get me to wear them, would tell me that I would get to wear the lacy socks. But if I wore the lacy socks, I had to wear the fancy shoes, for they went hand in hand... err foot in foot? I loved wearing the lacy socks, so I'd give in to wearing those awful shoes, even though they made me so miserable I could barely walk by the end of the day.
And so, dressed up as we were, Grampa would take us to church, just me, him and Gramma. We would sit in the middle of the centermost pew, Grampa and I on either side of Gramma. This was good, because it meant that only Gramma could hush me. Grampa could only give stern looks.
Then the preacher would begin, which meant it was time for me to fidget with everything from the hymn books to those awful shoes, until Gramma had had enough and would tell me to "be still!" Tch, fine. And that's when my eyes would wander to Jesus hanging up on the cross behind the preacher. There he was. Jesus.
Today I don't go to church much. Why? Well, for a multitude of reasons, one of them being that Jesus is too cute. Plus he's the perfect man. He's understanding and forgiving, he loves you anyway. Perfect, I tell ya! What's not to like? I mean, yeah I know, he's the Savior and all, but why does he have to be so darn cute? I am sorry, but loincloths are attractive to me and there he is all up there in a loincloth. And when he's not wearing a loincloth, he has on an easily dispensable robe. If he took off that robe, he'd be naked! Naked Jesus.
Yes, I am going to hell.
"Gramma, don't you think Jesus is cute?"
"Hush!"
"I think he's cute. How long does he have to hang up there? Doesn't that hurt?"
"Ari, hush!"
"Are you going to share the treats with me this time?"
"It's wine, you can't have it."
"Are the crackers made out of wine? One little glass isn't going to hurt me. Why can't I have treats too?"
"Shhhh, now be still."
Then the little trays would be passed around. On the little trays were fancy doilies. On the fancy doilies were little baby crackers. Just my size. Grampa, who was really not known for his table etiquette would politely take one. Gramma would take one next and put it in her mouth in the most reverant way. And then there was me, glaring at both of them.
"You're supposed to share! You just want to hog it all for yourself!"
Grampa would give me the evil eye. Next came the little tiny cups of wine. Just my size. But did I get any? No.
"Boy, I sure am thirsty."
I would catch Gramma looking at me out of the corner of her eye, before she tipped her head back ever so slightly to drink the wine. Defeat. Pure defeat. No wine for me.
"I'm going to tell Jesus you're not sharing with me," I'd proclaim, right before I laid my head down and slept the rest of the sermon out.
That was me at five. Asking my grandparents to supply me with alcohol while I flirted with a statue of Jesus. No wonder they didn't take me to church every single time.
Needless to say, I still think Jesus is cute.
posted by Ari at 10:31 AM
7 Comments:
lololol you do make me smile so much, your stories are the bestest :)
treats.... that is incredibly sweet. judi
Aww, that's such a sweet story. Amazingly so.
--Omar
WHat a wonderful memory. I used to think I would learn nothing, or that I knew everything. Until my father passed away. THe farther away I get from that moment, the more and more his wisdom, his kindness and his realness are more concrete. It is the memories such as yours that the real lessons of life are taught. Bless you Ari..
Thanks for sharing.
Jodi
I thought he was too!
I had a pair of those lacy socks, too. Those shiny pleather Mary Janes killed my feet.
I never found Jesus to be attractive, but I did try to get a hold of the wine once or twice.
I hope that you are getting this comment before the lightning bolt gets you....ha ha....j/k God....really.
As usual, you were so freaking funny but you added such a sweet family story this time as well. Is there anything you can't do?
Wow, that was a good story, I wonder if Jesus saw you flirting? LOL
I didn't want to go to church (actually Kingdom Hall) When I was a kid. If only Jesus was a woman, then that way I could have had a way not to go, either that or get popped in my head by my step-mom.
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