He was a decent enough guy; a faithful husband, a good provider for his wife and children. He was even lovingly tolerant of their rather fanatical (to him) religious beliefs. Or so he thought, anyway.
He went with them to church multiple times a week, and even sometimes stayed to listen to the sermon, er, message, that the casually dressed pastor gave for an hour.
The worship beforehand was OK, too, mostly modern choruses with some modernized old-timey hymns. Some of the post-concert preaching afterwards wasn't horribly boring, either, but it was mostly stuff that didn't scratch where he was itching.
What he really tuned out was all this talk of prophecy and end-times. It sounded pretty much like all the crazy stuff he heard about on the news - this or that loser setting dates or claiming the world was coming to an end soon. Hadn't they been saying that, like, forever?
In truth, he held his wife in a little contempt for being so gullible, and propagandizing his daughters with the same silliness, but he loved her and his kids, and she was an otherwise stellar wife and mother, and his girls were the most delightful kids he knew. They seemed to be immune to the normal preadolescent and adolescent craziness and nastiness that seemed to plague his coworkers' children.
Secretly, he credited his own parenting skills for their outstanding character and sociability, and found the complaints of the men and women he worked with about their own children to be more than a little disloyal.
Obviously, they were doing something wrong.
The craziest notion by far taught at their little fundamentalist church was the whole bizarre idea about being raptured up into heaven before things really fell apart here on the planet. The concept just made him want to laugh. How could anybody take it seriously?
He had discussed it once with his wife on the ride to church in what turned out to be a very unsatisfying dialog.
"You mean to tell me," he asked as kindly as he could, "that Jesus will come down and take all his favorite followers into heaven before 'pouring out His wrath on the rest of the world'?" He thought he was being respectful, but the others in the car would have said he was obviously condescending.
"It has nothing to with favoritism," his wife replied gently. "It has to do with faith."
"Don't you know, Daddy?" his nine year old chimed in worriedly. "All we have to do is believe in Jesus, and He forgives us our sins, and we get into heaven? Can't you just believe, Daddy? That's all it takes! You don't have to be perfect or anything!"
She was really concerned , and that bothered him a lot. It was almost like she couldn't love him as much unless he went along with her mother's crazy beliefs.
"Don't worry, honey," he reassured her. "Your daddy's a pretty good guy, all in all, even if I do say so myself. I'm sure God will take that into account."
"That's really not how it works, Daddy," his middle daughter said. "Nobody can be good enough to get into heaven on their own."
"We're all stinkin', rotten sinners, Dad," his 17 year-old declared emphatically. She never said or believed anything halfway, he had to say that for her. He admired her passionate conviction, but wished she would develop a more nuanced world view. She was clearly headed for a life of unpopularity. That was a shame for someone as pretty as she was, but what could you do?
Maybe her looks would allow her to get by. He hoped so. Loneliness was a terrible way to live.
"Wow!" he cried in mock surrender, deciding to end the conversation before they all ended up preaching their gospel to him. Again. "You guys are pretty convinced you've got everything wired, I see. Well good for you. Maybe I'll get there some day."
"We are praying for you, hon," his wife said, knowingly.
"Every day, Daddy," his youngest affirmed.
"Do you think it'll work?" he asked, quoting one of their favorite movie lines from a classic comedy.
"It'll take a miracle!" the middle daughter replied, in perfect imitation of the actor playing the scene.
© aqvik 2011
