View from the North 40: The fabric works in mysterious ways

I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic, but I think I may have proven the existence of God while I was at a church Monday.

I know, no one can be more shocked than I am that this happened on a Monday.

Just kidding, there’s nothing wrong with a Monday. I often have to live through as many as three Mondays in one week.

No, the real shocker was me in a church. Not that there’s anything wrong with a church, it’s just not my natural habitat. Also of note, people find God in churches all the time, but I understand that it’s more a faith-based, metaphysical experience, whilst I feel that my proof has a more existential, tangible element to it. Y’know, something you could literally point a finger at.

But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Monday, I was to meet my husband, John, at a church for the funeral of a long, long, long-time friend of his family’s, the kind of friend where the kids are all friends, so it was important that I be at the church, on time, on my best behavior and with courage intact to face all the many people and the decorum and the somberness in a place steeped in propriety and ritual.

All the things that one would expect at the funeral of a nice, well-respected, all-around good and God-fearing person.

And then then I got the giggles.

The giggles were still in my brain, but I’ve had them enough over the years to know what was fixing to happen. In fact, I had the giggles 30-odd years ago at this very church during my wedding ceremony — an event with lots of people and, traditionally, decorum and seriousness.

You see a pattern here, right?

Lots of things inspire the giggles, like sleep deprivation, joy, terror, relief from terror, certain people you love to hang around with, even nothing at all.

This time it was an unintentional and stupid play on words that included my nemesis — a typo. The quick explanation is this: I meant to text John a quick “Heading up to church.” But I got there, got a jolt of mini-terror reading his reply that he was running late, then I noticed I had actually typed “Heading up yo church.” I told you it was stupid.

Nevertheless, my stressed brain immediately said, “Yo? I wrote ‘yo’? Like I’m gonna throw open the double doors to the church and make a full-throated announcement ‘Send yo’ pastor home, peeps. I’m heading yo’ church t’day. And we’re gonna have some fuuun!”

I sat in the car desperately texting a friend who talked me down off the brink of disaster, and I felt appropriately guilt ridden and giggles-free walking all normal-like into the church.

I spotted our best-neighbor-ever, who he let me glom onto his comforting presence until my emotional support husband arrived, in time. And without a hint of levity, I got through the very proper Christian funeral with all the standing and sitting and standing and waiting and so on, which I have no problems with on any level, it’s just an important piece of my evidence of the existence of God.

Post ceremony, we stood talking among the crowd, including in everybody’s way in the hallway. We went through the food line, me on the side of the buffet with my back to everyone else in the room, and sat at the table with my back to the room. (hint, hint, clue, clue)

But I felt a cold spot on my backside as it hit the topside of the vinyl-covered chair. I thought I’d sat in spilled water or something, so I rolled slightly to the opposite cheek and discretely felt the cold spot. Any relief at finding my pants weren’t wet was negated by the fact that my pants were ripped.

Wide. Open.

In defense of my behind, the type of jeans I had on will, if they get a slight snag in the weave or some minor damage, just give way like you’re rending the material asunder with fists of anger. They are strictly for sedate inside activities. And yet, I had a full 6-inch gaping tear.

In. The. Seat.

I had a polite lunch with my derrière secretly hanging for the world to see, save for the chair I clung to.

Half my attention was on the conversation. The other half was trying to figure out when exactly my pants had betrayed me, giving light of day to a sight best left unseen. On the way in? During the sitting and standing? Before all the standing in the crowd? Before any standing with my back to the full room? Did my mercifully untucked shirt cover it for the most part, or even the least little bit?

I devised and executed a plan to get up and out of the chair and out to my car with minimum exposure, but after all that stealth, I sent my friend a photo of ripped pants.

Her only comment, aside from the string of laughing emojis: “Was it a lightning strike?”

Y’know, if I were going to be struck by lightning from a higher power, this seems to be the appropriately inappropriate version.

Well played, God, well played.

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I said holy, not holey at http://www.facebook.com/viewfromthenorth40 .