Saturday, November 10, 2007
Where I have been?
It's not all dusting pews around here. We've been really busy since our saint matching sideline is picking up for the holidays. We've even had customers from Australia and the United Kingdom, which means a trip to the post office.
Unlike everyone else in the world, I like the post office. I find that things get where they are going practically every time I send something out. Things I'm waiting for in the mail arrive for me. Most things get where they are going very quickly. Most of the post office employees are friendly and not surly. They even have a machine there that is usually not broken, so I don't even have to trouble an overworked postal employee and tempt them into being surly, I can just weigh and pay with the machine.
On top of all that, it's a good stretch of the legs for me to walk there. It takes a little longer, but I don't waste gas or pollute the air (something I take very seriously since my father is responsible for global warming), I burn a few calories, keep the old joints oiled and I have a chance to clear my head and think about things.
I have to be careful not to get too lost in thought because about half the walk is along a really busy thoroughfare, down a winding road with a teeny little sidewalk along side. One slight mistake by any driver in the oncoming traffic and I'm a nun pancake. It's a great time to assess my sins and ask forgiveness in case in the next second I am flattened. The final leg of the journey is across a large parking lot that is still too small and cramped for the shopping mecca it services. I cut across a parking lot full of frustrated drivers.
Let me tell you, I take special care when I walk behind anyone who is in their car with the motor running. A lot of these people are old. How do I know if they can tell the gas from the brake? I don't. I am wearing my scapular, but I'm hoping for a peaceful passing. I'd prefer not to be dragged to death through the post office parking lot under the chasis of a Lexus driven by a woman who's line of sight is under the arc of the steering wheel because of her osteoporisis.
That or a martyr's death. We also hope for that. Martyrs go straight to heaven. I don't deserve that trip otherwise. Where are the Iroquois when you need them?
So I was lost in thought on the home stretch of the parking lot, dodging old people who shouldn't be driving left and right, when I nearly ran into a van myself. It was parked. It was one of those PT Cruisers. They are very popular out here. And it was decked out for a wedding.
But not because the bride and groom were nearby. It was decked out because it was advertising a business. Marriage to Go.
This could be my big chance to die a martyr's death. If I hang around and explain to them what a bad idea this is, since none of their clients will be married in the Church, and a fight ensues and I'm killed, run over by the decked out PT Cruiser, that might actually count. You have to go defending the faith to qualify. I'm certainly not going to gain martyrdom if one of the postal employees goes you know what and kills me while I'm mailing a saint bracelet to Australia. I just don't think that would count. And I'm not sure it would not count as martyrdom if, while I was waiting for the Marriage to Go driver, one of the old Lexus drivers mowed me down.
Marriage to Go. For when you want to get married in a hurry. That can't be good.
I pressed on.
When little Bernadette did as she was told and asked our Blessed Mother who she might be and Our Blessed Mother told her, "I am the Immaculate Conception," Bernadette had no idea what Our Lady could have possibly meant. Bernadette didn't want to make a mistake, so she repeated the words over and over all the way home so she wouldn't get them wrong. She knew she wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. The nuns at school had pointed that out to her.
So that's what I did. Marriage to Go, marriage to go, I chanted to myself. I wanted to use the Google and find them. I can't fuss too very much. It turns out their intentions are good. Weddings are so expensive and they provide a nice wedding for a fee most people could afford. Too bad it might be some New Agey beach affair. Or some event run by the Separated Brethren. At least it's not what I had imagined: a quick phone call and some guy who can string the words "I now pronounce you man and wife" together shows up at the door with a marriage license and stands around leering after he says, "you may kiss the bride".
Still, I might have to shoot them an email and explain what we really mean by marriage in the Church. Maybe I can ride shotgun on their next trip.