How I Nearly Killed A Missionary

Did I ever tell you about the time I poisoned a missionary?

No?

Funny how some things just slip my mind.

Till this day, I don’t feel bad about it.  He was pretty merciless with me.  Picked on me constantly, even though he and his sweet family were staying in our house, the Maine house.

If you think I’m bad in the kitchen now, friends, you just don’t know.  In my first year of marriage I mastered one dish.  If it had a name, it would probably be Explosive Mac.  The recipe was pretty simple.  Mix up one box of mac & cheese with one can of chili and one package of cut-up hot dogs.

Aren’t you glad you didn’t know me back then?

Now, I may start kitchen fires from time to time and misread the directions on canned soup, but I’ve come a long way in the cooking department.

Back to the missionary…It was a Sunday morning.  I really love this, because it could have been a Friday or Saturday, but it was Sunday.  I like to think of it as God’s way of saying He’s got my back.

I made a sausage breakfast casserole and served it up hot and steaming.  It was cooked well and even tasted good.  Score one for me!

We spit-shined our kids, combed our hair, and piled into our separate vehicles to make the hour-long trip to church.  For some unknown reason, we were following behind these missionaries and not leading the way.  Apparently they had directions.

“Hey, do you think something is wrong with them?”  FringeMan asked.

“I don’t know.  Do you think they’re running low on gas or something?”

“I hope not, because then we’ll really be stuck.”

Maine roads all look the same.  They go on forever.  You see barn after barn, field after field, white house after white house, and the occasional moose.  Kidding, you only see a moose if you’re really lucky.  If he’s standing in the middle of the road and you go boom, you’re not so lucky.

We drove on and the missionary continued to look troubled while he was driving.  He kept squirming around and making weird hand gestures at his wife.

One long ride later, we came into a civilized town with a Dunkin Donuts.  The missionary flew through the streets and came to a screeching halt in front of Dunkin’s doors.  He ran in looking kind of flushed and sweaty, so I assumed he really needed a coffee fix, but what he really needed was a bathroom.

He finally emerged and slowly walked over to our car.  My husband rolled down the window and he explained.  Seems the breakfast casserole had been slowly erupting in his stomach all morning.

We never laughed so hard, because the night before, he called me a long-tongued heffer.

Yup.  God’s got my back.