Humor

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I would be the first to admit that I get things confused at times. I have been known to confuse my right hand with a left-handed compliment. Recently, the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage set me straight on one issue.

One day last week I was enjoying the last of my breakfast coffee and reading the morning newspaper while my wife was clearing off the breakfast table.

“Aha,” I exclaimed to my wife. “Finally, people are getting on the same page as me. And I don’t mind telling you, it’s about time.”

“What are you talking about?” my wife shot back at me.

This little incident shows that even though my wife and I live under the same roof, we are not always sitting at the same table.

“What am I talking about? I’ll tell you what I’m talking about; the serious situation with this migration problem. And now, according to the newspaper, someone is going to do something about it. In fact, the President is sending in the National Guard. Now, something will be done, you can rest assured of that.”

My wife looked at me and asked, “You mean the immigration debate.”

“Whatever. I’m just tired of them coming here every year and just showing up. They don’t call ahead of time. They never send a card indicating what day they will arrive. They just show up. And I’m glad somebody is stepping up to the plate to fix this annoying problem.”

“I think,” my wife tried correcting me, “you have your stories crossed.”

“Nonsense,” I interrupted. “It’s right here in the morning paper. If you can’t trust the morning newspaper, what, pray tell, can you trust.”

Ignoring her comment, I continued my tirade, “What burns my toast is these aliens are sneaking into our country without any regard to our laws. They eat our food and never even offer to pay for any of it. They don’t pay taxes and none of them speak English. They want all the benefits without paying for any of it and it is about time somebody put a stop to all this nonsense.”

My wife just stared at me the way wives do and finally said, “The story in the paper is about people sneaking illegally across the Mexican/US border.”

“Say, what?”

“Mexicans.”

“From Mexico?”

“Yea.”

“You mean they’re not talking about Canadian Geese?”

You can well imagine my complete let-down when she replied in the affirmative. I’m still not quite over this.

Once again I find myself alone in this extremely important, not to mention frustrating, battle. This situation with Canadian Geese, in my opinion, is just out of control and well in need of a firm hand.

Every year these foreign immigrants invade my neighborhood, not to mention my backyard. They just show up in my backyard and expect all their needs to be met and are not bashful in their demands. They eat everything in sight as well as everything I put out for the neighborhood cats, and leave nothing in return.

Well, actually, I should correct myself in this matter. They, in fact, leave plenty behind, if you know what I mean. The last time I toddled out into my backyard in bare feet I stepped on one of their “deposits.” This Canadian goose “deposit” oozed between my toes and it took me a month of soaking and scrubbing to get the smell off. Even now when it’s hot outside, I still can smell it.

Then, making matters worse, these foreign invaders refuse to speak English. I hear them squawking to each other and it burns me to a frizzle not knowing what they’re saying. I just know they’re talking about me and I’ve had enough of this nonsense. If you invade my backyard, eat my food, the least I ask is that you not talk about me in a language I can’t understand.

The last time one chased me across my backyard, I detected in its squawk a rich nasally French accent. From the safety of my back door I screamed to Pierre, the goose, “Don’t you hurl those French insults at me.”

Then I threw back at him a French slur of my own: “Vamoose.”

Pardon my French.

In late spring, when the last of the Canadian intruders have left, my wife and I sit down to a scrumptious roast goose dinner with all the trimming right down to the gooseberry pie ala mode. While sopping a piece of roast goose in rich brown gravy, I imagine the goose is Pierre.

Late one evening in the quiet of my study I encountered some scripture as I was reading my Bible before retiring. The impact of these verses brought me up a little short. Worse of all for me, it was written by my hero, the Apostle Paul.

“Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:19-21 KJV).

The natural temptation, for me, is to take things in hand and try correcting the situation myself as if I was the embodiment of all truth. The essence of true spirituality is knowing what to leave in God’s hand … and then leaving it there by faith.

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