Butt Dust

My ribs were just starting to feel somewhat better from my fall last week and then in church yesterday morning they were re-injured. You’ll note I didn’t say that I re-injured them. I said that they were re-injured.

The minister had just started his sermon with his arms extended toward heaven and with a rapturous look on his upturned face said, “Dear Lord, Without you, we are but dust.”  He would have continued but at that moment a little girl, about 4 years old, sitting with her folks right behind us asked her mother with a very serious but shrill and loud voice, “Mom, what is butt dust?” The minister stopped speaking, the whole congregation fought back a laugh, and the mother turned three different shades of red and tried shushing her innocent little daughter.

I hadn’t even settled into my sermon listening mode yet when I felt an elbow hit me in the ribs with quite some force. I looked over at the pickle queen, who had wielded the blow, with a ‘it wasn’t me’ look. She just shook her head at me. I’ll never know how she knew I wanted to turn around and tell the little girl, “It’s something like skid marks, but not quite as severe.” Maybe being married for 47 years has something to do with it.

Keep your fork


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