Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus and mysterious ways go together like peanut butter and jelly. Got it.
But I could use some unmysterious ways right about now. Why is it when I say, “OH DEAR GOD HELP ME, JESUS” for the fifth time (after my wicked, possessed-by-Satan-and-summer-vacation spawn have shouted in my face, “I HATE YOUR BIRTHDAY, MOMMY!”) Jesus does not swoop down to offer free camp or daycare?
Suffer the children unto me? Dude, you got that right. ‘Summer’ and ‘suffer’ are suspiciously close together, linguistically. Don’t think I didn’t notice that, Mr. Jesus. Swap out the m’s for f’s, and you’ve got a very apt description of the season.
But enough about me, Jesus. Don’t think I didn’t pay attention in my twelve years of Catholic school. I read all the stuff they say you said, man. Suffer them unto YOU. Not me. I didn’t ask to suffer any junkyard-dog-mean, underslept post-toddlers. It’s summer, Jesus, a season when Pottery Barn catalogs show empty, airy beach houses. No way I’m getting close to an empty, airy beach house this year, but you’re harshing my attempted mellow with your absence. Child care is your GROOVE THANG. Lend a hand, buddy. Or point me in the direction of a bored saint.
Listen, you did it once. So go for broke. Show up again, not just on a burnt slice of toast. Start at my house, and you can have all the Scooby-Doo fruit snacks and beer you want, Jesus. Bring Lazarus, or Mary Magdalene. You can have my bed. Fresh sheets daily. Lazarus would probably really appreciate that, come to think of it, if we don’t tuck him in too tightly at night.
Holy heck, Jesus. I’d even whip up something in the crock pot. Think about it.
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