7:45pm knock on the door. I tell the bipolar bears, "We're not answering that." I'm here at the computer in a T-shirt and no bra, and I've spent the day at home, alternating between sleep and episodes of House. Fourthborn is lying down because her back hurts. Middlest is in his room, quietly engaged in something and coughing softly; he has recently finished a course of antibiotics for his own bout of bronchitis.
None of us is in the mood for company.
Another couple of knocks. I get up from the computer, grumble "We're trying to sleep here," as I open the door enough to peer around it without advertising that while all of my nakedness is covered, I am not fully dressed. There are two tall young men backlit on our front porch.
They tell me that they're just checking up on us. I tell them that I'm the only one who's a member, which is not strictly accurate, as neither of my bears has removed their name from the membership rolls of the church out of respect for me.
"Is there anything we can do for you?" the elders ask.
"Yes. If there is any mail in the mailbox behind you, if you'd put it between the doors after I close this one, I'll grab it after you're gone."
I now regret not having included that "did you text first?" doormat to the Amazon order which is arriving on Saturday.
(I will, of course, apologize to them the next time I attend church in person [rather than via Zoom.])
2 comments:
Can I suggest that the next time the Holy Spirit sends the missionaries to your door, you could take advantage and ask them to give you a priesthood blessing. I am sure they would have been happy to wait outside until you was properly dressed.
Gentle clarification. My body skips bronchitis. I had a sinus infection and caught it before it could jump straight to pneumonia.
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