We got the most awesome gift in the mail today! Check it out!!!
To understand just how great this gift is, you have to know the whole story, which is why my husband Jon is posting today…
“What are you?”
This is the question my family gets asked most often. Not “how are you” or even “who are you,” but “what are you.”
I suppose that’s understandable, given the picture we present when we venture into the world. I in front, with a full gray beard and tassels on my belt loops. Our eight children in tow, the girls wearing dresses and the boys wearing slacks, my wife following in full headcovering regalia, modestly dressed in long skirt and sleeves.
I suppose what people really want to know when they ask the question “what are you” is “what do you believe?” or maybe “what are you like?” To the former, our standard answer is that we are torah-observant, charismatic Christians. We keep the Old Testament laws. We believe in the gifts of the Spirit. We believe in salvation through faith in Jesus (but do not believe that only those who know him will be “saved.”) As to the latter, allow me to give you a glimpse of what happens when the headcoverings come off and the sun sets upon the Sabbath…
“Rina, you have to see this!”
She opened one eye and pulled the covers to her chin. “Mmm?”
I shook her. “You need to watch this show.”
We have neither satellite nor cable television (because we’re good Christians) but we do have Netflix for the purpose of education (because we’re lazy homeschoolers), and every now and then, after the kids are in bed, my wife and I sneak into the living room for some “secular” entertainment (forgive us, Father, for we have sinned.) We hadn’t spent much quality time in front of the TV, lately, and I continued to shake her.
“C’mon, it’s been forever since we had a date night. You’ll love it.”
She groaned and stumbled out of bed to binge-watch Hugh ‘The Polar Bear’ Roland and Jack Jessie “The Haul-Road Ace” battle it out for the title of “Load Count King” on the riveting TV show Ice Road Truckers.
After several episodes, my wife stood. “I’m going to make popcorn. Want some?”
I paused the show while she rummaged through the cabinets. “We only have microwavable.”
This was a problem. Several months before, my wife—on threat of divorce—forced me to clean out our basement (aka. “The Abyss,”) a huge undertaking, during which we bribed friends and family to spend hours helping us relocate the junk that had accumulated in our basement. (You see, I wasn’t raised a torah-observant-home-schooling-charasmatic-Christian, I was raised one-small-step-above-redneck-white-trash. As a result of this reputable upbringing, I developed the habit of hoarding [Papaw was a junk dealer, don’t you know?]) I say “relocate” because all we really did was take everything in the basement out of the basement to the end of our driveway where it stayed. I must say, it was an impressive collection, consisting, among other things, of two broken deep freezers, three dog crates, a stair climber, a busted refrigerator, several computers, monitors, and keyboards… and one microwave.
Not to be deterred, I took a trip to the driveway and dug through The Pile (our pet name for The Abyss after the relocation) to find the microwave for my sweetie.
Somehow against our creationist beliefs, that microwave had evolved into a nuclear reactor during its stay in The Pile, because after running for a few seconds the bag burst into flames and filled the house with smoke. Redneck that I am, I simply waited for the smoke to clear, unplugged the thing, and chucked it back into The Pile where it sat, full of burnt popcorn, until we found a junk dealer willing to haul it to a more prestigious pile than our own.
A week later, a brand new microwave showed up at our doorstep, gifted by a family member who understood that no torah-observant-home-schooling-charasmatic-rednecks should be without popcorn for date night with Ice Road Truckers.