Patience Of A Saint

Every year Mutti guilts me into going to church with her, Lutheran Protestant-style. I argue that NPR and Travel are my saviors but her Germanic roots and theological preachings convince me I need more than frequent flyer miles to save my soul. So it's off to fidget restlessly with a bunch of overworked parents, crying babies and aging seniors. I have nothing in common with anyone here, spiritually or life-style wise. Chimes resound, bells begin and the chorus on the upper deck are unapologetically off-key. I feel a headache coming on. The woman behind me has a voice that could split my eardrums or shatter stainglass. I'm hoping for the latter. It's the shrill of those persistent high notes that drives my fingernails into the waxy candlestick I'm gripping. Several passages are sung in teutonic tongue and Mutti feels like she's back in 'Das Vaterland' waiting to meet Martin Luther himself. I can't take this and neither can the cute little babies staring at me from the front pews. After the last half hour hour they cry out for some peace and quiet and I envy that they can release their frustrations without repercussion. The worst is yet to come - a severe allergy attack. Dust mites buried in the church rugs gives me a sudden and severe allergy reaction and I'm groping in my pockets for Kleenex. Mutti shoves a handful my way followed by a dirty look. Hey, I'm here aren't I? Oh no, look out, here comes the greedy offering basket and I left my wallet in the car. For God's Sake, I'm unemployed, give me a break already! Finally, with my misery teetering on a brink of a meltdown, the last 'Amen' is repeated and my soul is safe for another year. Merry Christmas everyone!