We recently returned from a nice long vacation. While on vacation, we visited one of my wife’s aunts and her husband. They are Extremely Presbyterian.
I would have like to have gone to the Presbyterian services. However, my second child, who I oft refer to as my “middlest child,” was not feeling well. She was slightly sick that Sunday morning while getting ready to go their church – a church, by the way, that my wife’s uncle helped to found.
At the church parking lot, she started feeling ill again. My wife carried her to the front door of the church. Right before entering, my daughter vomited over the door, the entry way, my wife, my wife’s bag, the camera in my wife’s bag, and herself.
We spent the next twenty minutes or so cleaning the entry and then took her and the baby back to house.
Now I do not profess to be a Baptist – something worthy of disownment had my grandfather, rest his soul, ever heard. Or not heard. Whatever. He had “Baptist” stamped on his birth certificate right beside the “Democrat” endorsement. Mike Huckabee would have made him proud in every aspect save the “R” behind his name.
I do not recall my grandfather ever having a sense of humor either but suspected he was pulling my leg when he told me not to go to the Presbyterian Church. “They sacrifice goats there.”
Unless the projectile vomiting was Divine Providence*, the goats will have to wait until next time.
*not to be confused with Providence, RI, the location of the church.
A Dying Spider
7 years ago