I have to tell you a story about what happened to me in church a few weeks ago, but before I do – I need to tell you another story first.
[insert that harp-like wavy line TV show music here]
My children love deli ham. Every time we go to the grocery store together, they beg me to stop by the deli counter to get some more ham. It doesn’t matter if we have a meat drawer full of ham back at the house – we still have to stop and get a little more, just so they can have a taste.
In their defense, ham is delicious.
One special Saturday night, I was at the store picking up some stuff to make a big Sunday breakfast when we had the standard ham discussion. They begged, and goofed, and cavorted around the shopping cart. So we stopped at the deli counter, I got some ham, they tasted it – and that was that. We went on with the rest of our lives.
[more wavy music here to come back to present day]
I was running a little late getting ready for church the next morning, after making a big breakfast. I rushed upstairs, threw on the same pants I’d had on the night before, and hit the road. As the service began, the arts pastor asked us all to stand up to sing together.
I stood. I sang. I may have even tapped my foot a little.
Until I put my hands in my pockets, like I always do.
I may have even rocked out a little and done my best Stephen Tyler imitation.
In my left pocket, I felt something odd. Warm, squishy, and firm.
What in the world…?
I did what anyone would do in this situation. I pulled the unknown object out of my pocket.
And discovered a piece of ham. That my children have evidently snuck into my jeans last night at the store.
A piece of ham.
Disgust.
I shoved it back into my pocket as quickly as I could. I looked around. Did anyone see the ham? What would they think of me? Like I’m some kind of glutton that can’t make it through a service without a snack? A perishable snack, even – that I’m slob enough to keep in my pocket??
So I did what I had to do. I pretended it wasn’t there.
Until it was time to sit down again. I was preternaturally conscious of the sensation of it squishing in the fold of my pants.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I tackled a fellow church member as soon as the pastor finished preaching in a mad scramble to the trashcan.
Fine. So it was Roughing the Passer. He didn't have old ham in his pocket.
So. Now I wear leggings to church. Just in case.
