Humor at Church: The Holy Ghost

  I was raised Pentecostal/Apostolic. For those of you who aren’t familiar, this means we are very vocal, very physical, and very emotional with our worship. It can be shocking and maybe even frightening for someone not used to what goes on at the revivals or Sunday service (or any service for that matter). We have shouting, we have tears, and we have flailing. There’s always someone speaking in tongues. Having said that, I’ll share a humorous bit of my churchgoing experience with you, and maybe you’ll agree that going to church with family can be such a good thing!

   I have a little brother named Brandon. I say little. He’s a good foot taller than me, but he’s 4 years younger. When we moved from Donaldson to Malvern, Arkansas, Mom decided she wanted to try out a new church. I don’t remember what directed us to this particular little Pentecostal church, but we were going to try it, by golly! I want to say it was a Wednesday night service. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming. The music began, and so did the worship. There were hands lifted everywhere. Voices switching between singing along with the hymns and speaking their hearts to the Lord above. Some were tearful; others peaceful. I’d been witnessing this practically since birth, so I was perfectly comfortable.

   And then it happened. A woman, who looked to be maybe in her mid-twenties at most, became much immersed in the Spirit. She began to sway, lifting her hands. She began to cry, and to speak in tongues. Then, without stopping any of these things, she began to run around the sanctuary. Brandon was maybe 6 years old at the time, and had been sitting quietly during all of this. I don’t know what made me look, but I glanced over at him, and his eyes were as big as saucers! I turned back to face the front, and he nudged my leg. We were taught that it was wrong to talk during church, and he knew that, but he persistently nudged me. I leaned over so we could whisper. “What is it?” I asked. He shook his head slightly, and leaned in toward me. “I know what’s wrong with that girl. I know why she’s screamin’” he replied. I asked him what he meant, and he paused for a moment. Then, very solemnly and factually, he explained.

“That Holy Ghost is tryin’ to get her and she’s scared!”

Mom heard it, I heard it, and we decided it best to leave before anyone realized we were overcome with the giggles. 

The Crafty Midget: Mandi Locked Me Out

 Mandi and I have a lot in common. We’ve been friends now for almost 15 years, so we’ve picked up a lot of each other’s tendencies. However, there are some things that have yet to change. For example: I love camping, swimming at the lake, river, etc. I love fishing. The idea of getting on a four-wheeler and plowing through some mud makes me giddy. The paranormal fascinates me. I’m actually a member of a group known as Central Arkansas Paranormal Society (C.A.P.S), and have been since 2005. Every single one of those things scares Mandi to death. She doesn’t do outdoors. She doesn’t do dirt. She doesn’t do ghosts. How we have managed to stay friends all these years is amazing, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world! If God ever meant for me to have a sister, it’s her.


 I went on an out-of-town outing with my group a couple of years back, and asked that Mandi not deadbolt the door, that way I could get into the house and to bed once we got back into town. The outing lasted from about 2pm Saturday afternoon, until about 3am Sunday morning. This place was magnificent. Five stories (not counting the basement!) of empty, historical, dusty, cobwebbed spookiness. It was like an awesome Christmas present! We walked the halls and climbed the stairs, took pictures of this and that, and recorded everything. Finally, we were all starting to drag, so we thought it best to drive home before we couldn’t keep our eyes open to do so.  I pulled up into the driveway, exhausted and glad to be home. My shower and bed sounded heavenly! I turned my key in the lock and pushed the door. And it opened a crack before stopping. Our carport entry door had a hotel lock on it. One of those bars that latched and kept the door from opening more than a few inches. Clearly, Mandi had forgotten to leave the door unlocked. No biggie. I called. No answer. I called, texted, called, beat on the door, texted, beat on the door, and called. That final call is what made me notice that my phone was at 1% battery. CRAP. I beat on the door with all I had, hoping Mandi would hear and come let me in. Rushy (Mandi’s husband) was out of town for a biker gathering, so there was no calling him to let me in.   Finally, it happened. My phone died. 

And that, my friends, is when my inner ninja kicked in. 

I tried all the other doors. All of them were locked. Then I remembered that my bedroom window was unlocked! There was a small problem, though. My bedroom window was close to 10 feet off the ground. I looked around for a ladder of any kind. No luck there. I sat down to ponder my fate. I suppose I could sleep in the car until Mandi wakes up and sees that I called. THAT’S IT! THE CAR! My idea hit me all at once, and I knew then that one way or another I would be sleeping in my bed in short order. I got back in my car, started it up, and proceeded to back it into the yard, right up under my window. Now came the tricky part.  I’m all of 5’1”, so reaching the window was a little bit of a struggle. Even more of a problem though, was hoisting my bigger-than-the-average butt up and into said window. I managed to get my head through the window. “MAAAAAANNNDIIIII!!!!!” I cheerleader-whispered, trying to keep my voice down so as not to wake her son Jaxon. After about 10 minutes of that, I realized that I was on my own. I heaved and wiggled, thanking God that no one drove by to see my hind end hanging out the window. I guess I didn’t realize just how far in the window I’d made it, because that next shove sent me sliding over my nightstand and into the floor. I decided the shower could wait til after some sleep. That made me tired! 

 My phone began ringing off the hook sometime that morning, and Mandi texted:“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY!!  I HAD MY RINGER TURNED OFF AND DIDN’T EVEN HEAR YOU!”I one-eye texted her back:“It’s okay. I’m in bed.”Her response cracked me up.“Who’s bed????”To which I replied“Mine!”  She came into my room, and flopped down onto my bed. When I explained to her how I ended up making it into the house, she burst out laughing. She wished she’d seen it happen, and even went so far as to suggest that I do it again, just so she could see how I did it!!

You know a friendship is meant to be when they can point and laugh at you and request that you repeat your debacle solely for their own personal enjoyment. 

Awkward Encounters With The Opposite Sex: Just Touch It

I have friends of all walks of life. For the longest time, I had more male friends than anything. You’ve never truly lived until you’ve been the only female invited to Boys Night Out. Drinks are free, as is the entertainment. My guy friends learned really quickly to keep their wits about them while imbibing, otherwise I had no problem sharing the awkward-as-balls things they said and did while drunk to any and every one. I’m in a relationship now, and while most of those guys are in the same situation, we still enjoy the stories from all of our single and trying real hard to mingle days.

*Timmy*

Tim is a big teddy bear. The first time I laid eyes on him, I remember thinking he was absolutely perfect. Tall, tan, tattooed, grey eyes, and stocky. And perfect he was, until he spoke. I’ll be the first to brag on him for being the best bar buddy ever. No creep dared get any closer than 20 feet while I had this massive man sitting beside me. And heaven forbid they dare to speak to me! Tim was the first to offer to “whip his ass” if said creep got too brave. I met him through other friends at a house party.

We started talking and flirting, and one Saturday night, Tim called. He wanted to go to the bar, but didn't want to go alone. My friends and I were already planning to go out, so I invited him to come along. He met us at our house, and we all rode together. Once there, he proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced. We left shortly thereafter, and once we arrived at our house, he admitted that he was still too drunk to drive. Another couple of our friends were already sleeping over, and had claimed the spare bedroom for the night. Guess what that meant? Yes. Timmy was my bunk mate for the night. I’m one of those rare people who can sleep in the same bed with a person and not even remotely consider sex. I was still slightly buzzed, and though I’d spent most of my night doing the Cupid Shuffle, the Jumprope, the Wobble, and Copperhead Road, I was in no mood for the Hanky Panky.

Hair piled on top of my head in a bun, all makeup removed, baggy pj pants and an even baggier tee, complete with both bra and underwear still intact, I directed Timmy to the (oh dear God) daybed in the back bedroom. This daybed was so old that if you took a deep enough breath, the springs would scream. I lay there, feeling awkward and slightly claustrophobic. I shifted my weight and the bed shrieked in protest. “Good grief this bed is so loud!” I grumbled. Without missing a beat, Tim responded in a slur, “Yeah it’s a good thing we’re not f*&%in’”.  SERIOUSLY?! I sarcastically agreed, and he added, “I didn't bring any condoms anyway…” I didn't have the heart to tell him I could get one if needed. I bade him goodnight, and turned onto my side with my back to him. I’d almost dozed off, when suddenly this massive tattooed arm is thrown over me. I froze.

The next words out of his mouth may very well haunt him for the rest of his life, and with good reason. If you’re brave enough to use the line, you’re perfectly deserving of any backlash from it. He snuggled up to me. Okay, no big deal. He got right in my ear and whispered………………………….

“Just touch it.”

WHAT?!?!?! I couldn't speak for a moment, I was so baffled. What the HELL is he thinking?! He repeated his request. I finally found my voice. “I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH IT! YOU TOUCH IT!!!” His hand found a boob, and that’s when I lost it. “THAT IS NOT YOURS! LET GO OF IT OR I SWEAR TO GOD TIMOTHY WAYNE (no I don’t know if that’s his middle name) I WILL SCREAM AND THE PO-LICE IS RIGHT ACROSS THE HALL!!!” He removed said hand and arm, rolled over, and began snoring loudly. I finally drifted off to sleep, snoring pretty loudly my damn self. I informed him of his transgressions the next day, and over the next few weeks, I informed our mutual friends as well. They all found my story to be one of the best!

While Timmy’s not too fond of our nickname for him, he’s always a good sport, and we love him just the same. He’s the first one to offer an ear to listen, arms to bear hug you with, and a big broad shoulder to cry on. Oh. And a fist to punch whoever made any of us girls cry. God’s got someone awesome picked out for him. And who knows? Maybe his opening line will work for her, if only to make her laugh. 

Different Meanings for Different Beings?

Cheating has different definitions for almost everyone. What one person considers completely out of line and unforgivable, the next may see as absolutely harmless. I’m touching on this subject because it’s something that has changed me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually over the years. I no longer have the tolerance for it. I once was a person who would give endless “second chances”. I can’t do that anymore. Back in the day, you knew someone was cheating when someone was calling your house phone, and your S/O couldn’t seem to talk to them while you or anyone else was around. You’d find telltale signs here and there; on their clothes, in their pockets while doing the laundry. Then cell phones came out, and it was a little easier to do your dirty work. Because then you could be away from your home, but still reachable. And there was no proof (unless the person had the advantage of physically going to where you’d said you were) that you weren’t in fact at said location. Big step number three was the internet. Then came the dating sites, the social networking sites, email, and countless other ways to communicate with the outside world. And every single one of these could be password protected, or manipulated so as to portray a different person than the user was. You could be anyone you wanted on the internet. To the stranger on the other side of the screen, you could be a size 2, blonde, busty supermodel. You could be a tall, dark, muscled-up millionaire who says all the right things as long as you’re right there with the keys beneath your fingers. And unless the other person was willing to do some digging, they’d never know if you were spoken for by someone else.  

   It’s really sad. Honesty is a thing of the past. Being faithful has gone out of style, and the borders of appropriate friendships and conversations have been stretched so far they’re unrecognizable. Some would say as long as there’s no sex, there’s no foul. Stricter people would say no physical contact at all. Then there are the ones like me. The ones who firmly believe that if you have to lie about it, hide it, delete/change it, etc., then you’re most definitely up to no good. I would never approach another man in a sexual manner. Period. I do not flirt. I do not have inappropriate meet-ups and conversations with men. I would never even entertain the idea of having someone on the side.  I have male friends, and they all respect my relationship. I expect my S/O’s female friends to have the same respect. If I don’t know you, there’s no reason you should be meeting up with my S/O late at night, alone. I don’t give a damn what the reason is. If it’s that bad, call the cops. No female, aside from relatives (and a VERY select few) should be alerting my person that she’s home alone and ask what he’s doing. Personally, I find it disrespectful on her part and his as well, if he doesn’t correct her behavior. Let’s be clear: I will stand by my man through his troubles. I will help him any way I can, and encourage him to do/have better for himself. What I will not do under any circumstance is FIGHT OVER MY MAN. If there’s another female in the picture, she can have him. I have too much common sense and self-respect to play along with that. I will cut my losses and carry myself on to bigger and better. 

What are your views on cheating? What do you consider “Eh, no biggie”, versus “OH HELL NO!!!!”? Does anyone believe that a cheater can change their ways, or is a cheater always going to be just that? At what point do you go from "We can work this out", to "Get your shit and get out?"

Laughter at a Funeral-Part1

Most people would think laughter at a funeral is a bit demented. Maybe it’s a sign of some mental issue that should be remedied—fast! I’m sure it’s most definitely deemed horribly inappropriate as this is always a mourning event. Trust me. Though my heart is always heavy at these events, and I do shed tears for the one we’re saying our final farewells to, laughter at a funeral has been a constant in my life for years now. You’d be amazed at the giggles I’ve had while someone very near and dear to me lay only a few feet away in a coffin. It’s morbid; I know. But hear me out as I share some of my most fond funeral memories, and hopefully you’ll see why and how I can laugh during one of the saddest times of our lives.

1.Danny

I’ve been an honorary member of the King family since I was 12 (I’m 31). These people have watched me grow up. Monica has always been a second mother to me, and the girls like sisters. Chelsea is the youngest, and she was only 5 years old when I was introduced to the family. Around age 19 or so, she fell for a guy named Danny. He was a bit reclusive where the rest of us were concerned, but as far as Chelsea went, he seemed utterly and completely devoted to her. It wasn’t long before (surprise!) they’d gotten married (I found this out on one of my many visits), and Chelsea was pregnant with their now 3 year old daughter Nevaeh. During Chelsea’s fifth month of pregnancy, Danny was killed one night, in a gruesome accident. Arrangements were made, and Mandi and I took the time off of work to be there for Chelsea and the family. The night of the visitation, we drove over to the local funeral home. After paying our respects to the deceased, and handing out many hugs to the family, we moved ourselves to the waiting area; respectfully staying out of the way of the other friends and relatives who came from near and far. Tia (the eldest of the King girls) and her daughter Tori were waiting with us. Mandi, who’s even more uncomfortable in places like funeral homes, had become increasingly fascinated with the mystery door at the end of the hall, and was trying unsuccessfully to get Tori to go open it and see what was back there. We all sat somewhat quietly, observing the wide range of people who’d shown up. At one point, a small elderly lady with the longest silver hair I’d seen since my Granny’s joined a middle-aged couple by the door in a quiet discussion. Suddenly, Silver Hair had a terrible coughing fit—AND LET LOOSE THE LOUDEST FART I THINK I’D EVER HEARD.

Now, the way I was raised, when something like that happened in a place like where it happened, you pretended that it did not in fact happen at all. You ignored it completely, and did everything in your power to keep your composure. I did fine there. Tori turned slowly to face Mandi, and in total shock and disgust whispered, “That lady farted!”. Every ounce of composure and act-right that Mandi had left completely diminished. She calmly walked over to me, leaned down, and whispered in my ear, “That lady did the cough and fart!!!” Then she ran down the hall to the restroom where she apparently lost every bit of it. I was left out there in that waiting area, giggling so hard that no sound was coming out. I’d turned a very unflattering shade of maroon, had tears rolling down my face, and a hand over my mouth because I swear to God had I moved it, I would have scared everybody in that funeral home. Mandi came back out, and we sat on the couch, arms around throw pillows with our faces as buried as possible as we shook and cried from laughter. I’m thankful that people genuinely thought we were shedding tears of sadness. They would walk by, look sympathetically at us, and pat our hands while whispering, “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay.”

Once we were able to venture outside and catch up with everyone, Mandi told Tia about what had transpired in the waiting area. Tia wanted to know who the cough and fart culprit was. At some point while they were talking, Cough and Fart walked up and was standing directly in front of Tia. Mandi, who’d moved to the other side of the circle to talk to Monica, was frantically gesturing to Tia that she was right in the line of fire. This did not help my state of mind from the earlier laughing fit I’d had. Grabbing Mandi by the arm, I blurted, “We need to go to the car. NOW.” As we walked to my little yellow car, I kept chanting. “Get in the car, get in the car, shut your door! Hurry up! Roll up the window!” Once we’d accomplished all of that, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into the biggest, loudest belly laugh I’d ever had. I was gasping for air, tears running down my face, and holding my stomach because my ribs felt as though they might just break any minute.  It was months before we were comfortable enough to tell Chelsea. Once we told her our story, she laughed, explaining to us that Cough and Fart was her beloved Danny’s grandmother.

That could be the end of that chapter, but there’s still the actual graveside service. We took the necessary time off of work, if only to be there by Chelsea’s side during the hardest part of all of this. While standing around waiting for the service to begin, I noticed something very abnormal. There was a woman, standing not too far in front of me. She was wearing what can only be described as a leopard print Band-Aid. This dress (or lack thereof) was strapless, and barely covered what no one should be waving around in broad daylight; let alone a funeral. Assessing her skimpy attire, I followed her legs down to the spiky, stripper-height stilettos and realized only one of her shoes had an ankle strap. And then I realized that it was not in fact an ankle strap for a shoe. This woman had come to a funeral service dressed like a stripper and wearing a house arrest ankle bracelet. In my futile attempts to figure out what exactly in the Hell she was thinking, I noticed she was having a hard time standing still. Ladies and gentlemen, if you are one of those scrawny, greasy, nasty looking meth addicts who is so strung out that you bounce more than a hot check before payday, stay your crazy tail at home. This woman shifted restlessly from foot to foot, hip to hip, messed with her hair, messed with her dress. Anything to keep moving. Mandi and I tried our best not to make our observations too loudly. I’m not really sure when the woman turned around, but suddenly I hear, “OH MY GOD AMBER!! GIRL I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER!” Band-Aid and House Arrest was someone I knew. She’d been friends with my little brother when she and her family lived across the street from us. She hugged me, chattered away nervously, and abruptly walked away. Mandi stood beside me shaking her head and mumbled, “Leave it to you to know the only crackhead at the funeral.”