Good morning, y’all. Another fabulous day in the mountains, made sweeter by the Bulldogs victory. 9 to 6 is some serious old school football. I think one of the announcers said you’d have to go back to 1971 to find a single digit victory for UGA. I guess the offenses have come a long ways in forty four years. Looks like the concept of, “if they don’t score we can’t lose” has been forgotten. I’m showing my age.
Well, one thing that’s not letting any moss grow on it is The Full Gospel Original Church of God. Mulva reports that the Elders no more than got the church setup with all of the audio-visual doodads you find in one of those Baptist superchurches, than the church got an offer to broadcast the sermon locally. Apparently our new pastor, the Reverend Helen Handbasket, is all the buzz. From the Sonic to the Korean nail salon, people are talking about the “other-worldly” feeling they experience when watching the Reverend Handbasket ply her trade.
Seems like the folks new to our church are less demanding about the Reverend Handbasket proving her mettle against the big boys of our religion, the timber rattler. Old Ben may be able to live his days out in retirement without wondering if some fool is going to want to drag him back in front of the bright lights again. I’m happy for Old Ben, but the news of a local broadcast has got some downside for me. According to Mulva, I’ll be able to watch the services from the quiet confines of our little trailer. I had considered the loss of the weekly trips to Wall Mart on Saturday and church on Sunday as part of the “silver lining” that came with my sentence of house arrest. Now I’ll be expected to watch the service and converse with Mulva about its meaning when she gets home. Don’t be confused, I enjoy my talks with Mulva after she goes to church on Sunday. It’s just that currently our talks are more about the personalities of the congregation, rather than the Concept of the Divine Trinity.
This little twist of events is not the only church related issue that has popped up this week. In the spirit of, “doing unto others”, Mulva has had me rent one of our vacant trailers to the Mrs. Reverend Dale E. Bread, our former pastor’s wife. I’m not sure that rent is the right term, as no cash has been exchanged, but Mulva tells me I’m doing the right thing. I guess I’ll just continue “to lay up riches in Heaven”, until I can get somebody on the Earthly plane to cover the charges for her. If it was just the rent it wouldn’t be so bad, but we’re locked into the utilities and at least two meals a week. The Breads were “fruitful and multiplied” and have seven little rug rats running around. I guess you could say the Reverend didn’t cast his bread upon the waters. I joke to conceal my broken heart.
The Bread’s little monsters have thoroughly trampled my prize Irises, and I seem to be in a position that has no remedy. Now, I know I don’t seem like a fellow that would get all weepy over flowers, but I have a particular affinity for Irises. I’ve been growing them here at TackyToo for as long as I can remember, they have been a source of pride. Now they are a source of fodder for the compost bin as the little twerps decided to play a game of Red Rover, Red Rover, right over my flower bed.
It’s days like these that you question the concept of a just and loving God. I reckon I’ll be discussing God’s love again every Sunday until the Reverend Handbasket goes off the air. Oh, me.