Sermon Notes: Jimmy Fallon-style

Due to a severe case of undiagnosed attention problems, I often have to utilize sermon notes to stay on task during Sunday service. Depending on my sliding scale of sustainability, ranging from a 1 ("Squirrel!") to a 5 ("The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side."), my sermon notes are either near-publishable gems of theology or cartoonish drivel. Today I ranked in at about a 1/2. 

My pastor is an engaging, charismatic speaker. His topics are relevant and meaningful. Shallow and self-centered, I was only able to stay with him for approximately three minutes before I paused to admire the perfectly-placed barrette of the blonde seated in front of me, her attention riveted on Pastor Todd's profound message. I inventoried the sanctuary's lighting fixtures before fighting my way back to the sermon topic of "thanks giving." 

As Pastor Todd began the familiar tale of the ten lepers, I inexplicably began thinking of "The Tonight Show" and Jimmy Fallon's comic bit of "Thank you notes." Sydney just got me a published book on his compiled thank you's not long ago. So pleased was I, with my completed sketch, that I decided to embark on a series of biblically-related thank you notes. I considered consulting with Pastor Todd but he was still a bit occupied with delivering his message so I ventured out on my own.

My next sketch went Old Testament-style. I kept my "Dear Jesus," intro regardless of the fact that He wasn't born in human-form until New Testament time. Technically, He's been present since the beginning. Did you think God was just proselytizing when he was talking about making man in "our" image. No, God DID NOT have a mouse in his pocket...Jesus was there. Anyhoo, along came Jonah. Before I knew it, service was over. I regretfully closed my sermon journal and stood up to leave, my mind still whirling with all the potential bible-based thank you notes out there. So many things to be thankful for...walking on water, feeding the five thousand, a talking ass, the Red Sea. Outwardly, I may not look like I'm your typical congregation member but believe me, despite my unconventional approach, consider the message: received.

Quinoa? Can-what? William CANnot eat that!

As a mandated reporter, it is both my civic and moral obligation to put a stop to this nonsense. With the exception of animals ("Why go to the zoo," she once growled, "when you can see the same animals on the internet?"), elementary car maintenance ("Where does this blue stuff go," she asked, sloshing the gallon jug at me. "You mean windshield washer solvent," I asked, incredulously, popping open the hood of her car while she looked on with utter amazement as though I had pulled a rabbit out of her carburetor. If she ever gets around to reading my blog, I guarantee she'll text me to find out what a carburetor is), and her embarrassing meal ordering habits ("Who do you think you are," I hissed as the waiter walked away, shaking his head in exasperation, "Meg Ryan from When Harry Met Sally? Not everything has to be ordered on the side."), my friend Sarah is a perfectly lovely person. But this is just too much. I overlooked her letting her son play with a dog toy. I applauded (even though I may have thrown up in my mouth a little) when she licked off Will's pacifier after it fell on the floor of a busy pizzeria before popping it back into his mouth. But then it happened and I admit that I am now seriously questioning the parameters of our friendship.

It was time to feed Will. I try to avoid these experiences as she tends to feed him food not fit for human consumption. I appreciate that Will has distracted her attention in this area away from me, (She once tried to "cure" my lingering cold by forcing some beta-carotene crap-colored concoction that was, like, 98% pulp down my throat. Let's just say it, it wouldn't stay down.) but I can't sleep nights, racked with guilt from what William must endure on a daily basis.

The irony was almost painful as she gleefully pulled out a product called "Happy Baby" from the bag.

We were celebrating my daughter's birthday with a Mickey Mouse cake.
 Notice what has captured poor Will's attention.

Will didn't look all that happy. He tried to make a run for it but he hasn't quite mastered the whole one-foot-in-front-of-the-other thing yet so she easily tackled him, pinning him into place with some weird anaconda leg lock maneuver. I could only stand by and watch in helpless horror. "What is that?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.  ""It's a food pouch," Sarah said, deftly following Will's moving mouth as he frantically flailed his head from side-to-side. "He's not an astronaut," I pointed out, worried why she was feeding her baby freeze-dried spacefood. "No, no, no," she laughed, even though neither Will or I was finding this situation remotely funny, "It's natural food...organic...no preservatives...no GMOs...BPA-free." She was out-of-breath from wrestling Will. I, on the other hand, couldn't understand a single word or acronym she was saying. "It's chicken, vegetables and quinoa," she said, showing me. Just like I suspected...a crap-colored concoction. Not wanting to look totally ignorant, I waited until I got home to look up "quinoa" (pronounced KEEN-wah). I wasn't too far off in my hypothesis that it was an off-shoot variety of wild shrub poultry. Quinoa is a member of the non-migratory goosefoot species. It is considered a pseudocereal. WHAT?!? I called Sarah immediately to inform her that she was feeding Will a product that was only pretending to be a cereal but she had to hang up as Will had almost managed to escape her culinary clutches again. Isn't there some sort of intervention program available? I "KEEN-not" put up with this much longer.

I Swear I Was There: See You At The Pole

Not my finest moment as a Christian woman. Pulled into the school parking lot, my mind packed with the zillions of things I needed to accomplish before my 4th graders walked into my classroom door when I spotted a small contingency of people standing in the circular grass meridian of the bus loop. "D#mmit," I muttered. It was See You At The Pole. Okay...I know how this makes me look but, c'mon, I had to put my leftover Shepherd's Pie in the refrigerator, log onto my computer, consider buying a Snickers bar, and count out enough green foam place value unit cubes so that nine students could have twenty-four each. That was a lot of math to have to face before 8 am.

I sat in my van and considered my options. Sure, I could skulk my way across the parking lot, dodging between vehicles "Pink Panther-style." I could walk swiftly toward the building, seemingly so lost in my important educator thoughts that I simply didn't notice the gathering of prayerful people. I heaved a sigh. I pray every morning on my drive to school, my thoughts on the safe travel of my family members, my students, naming off my infinite blessings...but I realized that, as an adult, my role in this particular bible-based drama is just that: a role model...a visual representation of my faith. Man...I stomped over and joined the circle in full swing.

Once I was resigned to the idea that a Snickers bar was not going to be a part of my immediate future, I lost myself in the soft serenity of the moment. The bright blue September morning, geese honking overhead, a colorful pile of student backpacks nesting at the base of the flagpole. Our speaker sprinkled his message with mini-quizzes (I was nervous that, after asking for the definition of "righteousness," that he would request the correct spelling of the term) so I sank into private prayer, concentrating on God's Will regarding the injured front left paw of my little dachshund.

The buses began lining up, surrounding us like circus elephants. I shifted my prayer topic, asking for a hedge of protection; actually more of a non-permeable bubble barrier, against the diesel fumes. We grasped hands and prayed together before heading into the school. For the remainder of the day, I was shamed for my initial response to the See You At The Pole event and rewarded for my participation as curious kids asked me, again and again, "Mrs. Mosiman, what were you doing this morning?"  I explained in a quick and casual manner but as I left each inquiry, I would add in my head, "I was praying for you."

I'm so LUCKY to have a charming friend like Joan

This is a picture of what friendship looks like.

I have many wonderful qualities. When I think of some, I will be sure to share them with you. "Friendship" is not my strongest skill. I notoriously forget birthdays, stop in for visits without calling first, mooch like nobody's business and interrupt CONSTANTLY. Let's just say I'm a better talker than a listener.

My friend, Joan, on the other hand, is the epitome of true friendship. Not only has she put up with my obnoxious shenanigans for almost thirty years, she graciously took on the role of beloved aunt to my two girls, weaseling her way into my and Brad's Wills for "just-in-case" guardianship. "If you ever die, Amy," she  would threaten, "I will KILL you!"

She has been known to, Shoemaker's Elves-style, sneak over to husk several bushels of corn as three out of the four members of the Mosiman Family begrudgingly prepared ourselves for Brad's favorite family activity: Freezing corn. "We can buy a bag of frozen corn from the store for 99 cents," we'd say but our complaints fell on deaf "ears."

Despite knowing that there was more-than-a-good-chance that she could be arrested, Joan has taken part in some of our more idiotic adventures. When we decided to test a watermelon's buoyancy in a cinematically BIG way, Joan was willing to be the one to sneak past the "DANGER:  STAY AWAY FROM RIVERBED" sign to fling our melon into the raging rapids. We also learned how quickly Joan could move when a warning whistle blew! She cheered louder than the rest of us when our melon survived the rapids but exploded upon impact when it hit the massive waterfall.

Speaking of exploding, Joan did not immediately terminate our friendship when we inadvertently canoed her end of the vessel into a bloated beaver carcass, nor did she storm off when we set up her tent so that she was sleeping on a fork. She has helped pluck puke from my daughter's hair on a road trip, listened to the same story tape fifty-ka-zillion times on our many travels ("It's a good game...a very good game."), let me dress her like a Pilgrim, and never judges me for any of the bad decisions I make.

And then, two days ago, she appears at my house with a large, gallon-sized bag filled with Lucky Charms marshmallows.  My dream come true. For years, I have joked that my goal in life is to sort through a box of Lucky Charms, discard all those pesky cereal bits and gather up the rainbow of pink hearts, yellow moons, green clovers, blue diamonds (and purple horseshoes) but, of course I was too lazy to actually do it. My friend did it for me.

Winning at euchre just isn't in the cards

Baby Tenley doubling as a euchre table.

You'd think for a gal who plays euchre two times a week, I'd be pretty darn good at it by now. However, if you take a gander at the photo, you might be able to guess why I have the euchre-playing capabilities of a wild chimpanzee. I deliberately chose to compare my playing skills to a "wild" chimpanzee because I'd bet that a chimpanzee, living out his life in captivity, could easily beat me in euchre.

Today while I was enjoying my friend Kelly's delicious plum/raspberry crisp dessert between hands, I paused to reflect upon on our adorable card-playing "table". Kelly's beautiful baby Tenley patiently "held" the pile as we determined, argued or just simply forgot to call up trump. I was suddenly transported, back in time, to an oddly similar circumstance during a church youth group trip to Kentucky.

Our little group had pitched our tents among others, Woodstock-ish (without the blatant sex and drugs) in a giant, mildly-sloped field. Several boys were assigned to go "fetch water." They managed to successfully make it back but stopped short at the base of our mildly-sloped incline, claiming it was "too steep" and the water was "too heavy". Our mighty leader, a tall well-built police official, set off down this mild slope, mocking the boys with each step. That's what good Christian youth leaders do. It's in the manual. He easily grasped the buckets of water and walked briskly up the mild slope...setting a good example and, bonus, shaming the boys at the same time. The young men disappeared and our hero, a paragon of hard work and cooperation, glanced around quickly to make sure there were no under-age witnesses, and then collapsed to the ground, clutching his back. A slipped disc on a mildly-sloped incline. But, in the midst of this great adversity, we made the best of it. As our superstar of silent suffering lay in traction on the ground, he served as both our card table and as my husband's euchre partner. Our only complaint was that our playing cards kept slipping off the mildly-sloped incline.

Moving Day

Getting our baby bird ready to leave the nest turned out to be a tad more complicated than just simply filling a few boxes of her belongings and notifying the United States Post Office of an impending change-of-address. Let us first wrestle a queen-sized mattress and box spring six feet in the air and strap them precariously to the top of the van before bustling off, Beverly Hillbillies-style, into the sunset (ignore the fact that it was actually early afternoon...poetic license, you know).

We arrived at our intended destination with our mattresses intact and our dignity in tatters. After nearly being crushed to death by an avalanche of Posturepedics which would later require a trip to the chiropractor, we faced our next challenge. "What's the entry code," Brad said, huffing as he lugged one mattress up the first ten steps of the building. Savannah and I looked at each other. Uh-oh. No worries...it only took us an hour to convince various residents of the apartment building of our upstanding moral character and recently expunged prison records before someone took pity on us and punched in the magical four-digit access code.

Twenty steep steps and a narrow right angle turn later, we encountered the next difficulty. As Savannah's apartment key was, at that moment, stored safely in her car that was conveniently parked in Rochester, we had stopped by a nearby friend's house to unearth the emergency spare key, buried, Jack-Sparrow-style, in the flower bed. Retrieved, we noticed that the key was shaped rather oddly but optimism runs deep in my family...until the lock won't budge. The following is the desperate text-messaged conversation to the Rochester friend:

Us: This is notice of a quick drive-by...we're stranded like hobos outside Savannah's apartment...with only a mailbox key! Be there shortly...not even coming in for a visit.

(Astute readers quickly recognize the between-the-lines meaning of this text to reflect Mr. Mosiman's profound unhappiness with the idiocy of this so-called "move.")

Rochester friend:  Lol...stranded with a mailbox key sounds like a country song.

Over an hour later, with the correct-key-in-hand, we unlocked the door to Savannah's new world, delivered her furniture and stood baffled in front of a freezer full of wine bottles and cabbage rolls. It was time to go. "Are you going to re-bury your mailbox key," Brad asked his daughter, driving away before she could respond. After a quick Google search, I texted Savannah an inspirational message.

Me:  Fun fact, in 1961, Buck Owens and his Buckeroos released a single called "The Key's in the Mailbox."  What do you think...potential ringtone?

I'm still waiting for a response.