Trinity Sunday

"I have a favor to task of you," I said, looking up and backwards, searching to find Pastor Mike's face.  As with most conversations we've had, PM had me in a headlock.

"You do?"  he asked, spinning me around again.  I was glad today's greeting didn't involve his binder pounding on my head.  That's apparently reserved for the days when I already have a headache.

"Can I borrow your keys?"

"For?"

Dang it.  Had I really hoped the senior pastor of a megachurch would willingly surrender his keys to some mischievous members?

"Pastor Russ's office."  I quickly began to explain the situation in the briefest of terms.  I also regretted not chasing down Pastor Jim (PT) instead.  To PT, all I would have needed to say was, "It's Trinity Sunday" and the keys would have been mine.

"Well--" PM started.  I knew what was coming: no.  It's understandable.  You can't have three girls unchaperoned in a pastor's office, even if it is Trinity Sunday.

"We won't touch anything," I added, holding my hands in the air.  PM's face softened to a smile.

"I already saw the balloons," he said, reaching through his robe and into his pocket to pull out his keys.  "And touch anything you'd like," he added with a laugh.

Yes!  Pastor Mike has always liked me.  Something to do with his being the father of four girls and my being the oldest of three.  Either that or the fact that we were pranking Pastor Russ.

Drums and I tried not to run as we headed down the office hallway and back to our heap of balloons outside PR's office door.  The hard work had been done.  The Athanasian Creed had been cut apart line by line.  Each line had been shoved into a balloon.  The balloons had been blown up and the key obtained.  Now the fun stuff: the decorating.

We didn't have enough hot air, I mean, balloons to fill the office.  Unfortunate!  Instead we filled every nook and cranny we could fine.  A few under his desk, another behind the guitar, some on the bookshelf, one in the Easter basket, one next to the Jesus doll... more or less, everywhere.  We even taped one to his desk that read "Trinity Sunday" and one to his door that read "Athanasian Creed."  Now everyone that walks by will be curious as to why PR's office door became a bulletin board... today.

You see, this is a four-year tradition.  The first year Melissa and I were caught red-handed.  We had the Creed in a plethora of different languages taped to his door.  He thought it was hate mail from the "Sex Sermon" he'd done on the 6th Commandment the week before.  We learned PT felt left out so the following year we used 12-inch white letters to write "Athanasian" down PR's door and "Creed" up PT's.  I was in Costa Rica for the third year, but Dawn and Melissa decorated the door with the Creed... on Post-It notes.

A few weeks ago, Trinity Sunday talk began on facebook.
Melissa: This week is Pentecost.  You know what that means next week is?
Pastor Russ: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo... just kidding.
Katie: Pastor Russ is just kidding.  He likes Trinity Sunday.
PR: I like Trinity Sunday.  I just don't like "Let's celebrate Trinity Sunday on Pastor Russ's office door."
Katie: We could celebrate Trinity Sunday in Pastor Russ's office, if that would be better.
Dawn: OOOHH!  I want in!
Somewhere in here a secret leaked that PR would be out of town this weekend.  We started an email conversation.
Katie: Let me get this straight, you're fleeing on Trinity Sunday, leaving your office open for whatever cockamamie scheme we develop?
PR: My office may be boobie trapped.  Enter at you own risk.
Katie: For the Trinity, we're willing to risk it.

And we did.  PR congratulated us on another clever and successful Trinity Sunday.  (Even though he'd popped half of the balloons before discovering the Creed was inside of them).  Rumor has it PT felt left out again.  We'll have to fix that next year.  Any ideas?

<>< Katie

PS: Happy birthday, Drums!

Clean Up on Aisle Twelve

I'm thinking about updating my blogger profile to read, "My name is Katie, and I single-handedly keep security camera men from falling asleep on the job."

It was the summer after I graduated high school.  Mom and I had gone to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to pick up some stuff for my dorm room.  Among those items, plastic crates.  You know, the ones that serve almost no purpose in real life and shouldn't be found anywhere but in a dorm room.  I had three homemade wooden boxes (that leave purple and turquoise paint everywhere they sit) and opted to buy two plastic ones, too.  They were in a cute display in the breezeway between the two front doors of the store.  I grabbed two, and we kept shopping.

While we were checking out, Mom and I noticed the plastic crates we'd grabbed were less than perfect.  I took them out the door (no, the alarm didn't go off) and went to exchange them.  I set my two crates on the display and began searching for unbroken ones.  Since this was in the entryway, the automatic door opened and closed every time I moved.  Kind of annoying, but not really a big deal except for the fact that one of the crates had been displaced.  When the door opened, it caught the corner of the crate.  When it closed, it pushed the crate further out of place.  Of course, that one misbehaving crate hit the other crates in the display.  Since I kept moving, the door kept opening and closing, and the crates kept flying all over the entryway.  The entire display tumbled onto the floor creating a fire hazard and almost hitting me in the face. 

I wasn't really sure what to do.  I couldn't stop the display from toppling over just like I couldn't stop the door from opening.  I stood there with my arms in the air, triggering the motion sensor yet again.

I looked through the window to my mom and the cashier, both of whom had stopped what they were doing to search out the cause of this racket.  "And we're letting her go to school 900 miles away," I heard Mom say.

I lost a war with a plastic crate display.  A few war wounds, but I lived to tell the tale.  It has been three years and I have still not shown my face in that Bed, Bath, and Beyond again.
<>< Katie