What can YOU say in six sentences?
She looks like Victoria from The High Chaparral and in a thick Selma Hayek accent tells the story of her little girl falling from a twelve-foot balcony. She is able to cry and speak at the same time and somehow her mascara doesn't run as she takes us on this nightmarish journey during a support group meeting for parents of disabled children.
"I go to chapel every day and pray to Jesus - Jesus, just save my little girl, sweet-sweet Jesus, and I will praise your name over the rooftops - and then I ask him to just take away my husband's money, all of it, so he will spend less time at work and more time with his family, so he will go to chapel with me because he won' come but don' get me wrong - my husband is a gooood man...a gooood man"; that last part is whispered for effect and I decide as I look at all the jewelry she's wearing that not only has she practiced this story in the mirror, Jesus did not take away her husband's money.
Her story goes on for a good half hour, dismal then doubly dismal, and just as I reach for tissue because I'm picturing a helpless vacant vegetable in a Disney decorated children's hospital, she tells us that for going to chapel "every day for seven years" God healed her now ten year-old daughter who miraculously progressed from severely disabled to cured.
At the end of the story she passes photos around the room to women whose children are not cured of Down Syndrome, severe autism and cerebral palsy, and as I look at the lovely image of perfection I think about good people who just get a busy signal when they call the Almighty.
I'm ashamed for wanting to take needle-nose pliers to those who portray themselves as having graduated God Cum Laude, those so well-versed in the language of effectual prayer with God on speed dial; it's like the kid with the easy ride waving like a beauty contestant at the weary kid on foot.