Rip Van Winkle and ME

When I find myself in times of trouble ... I go to sleep. I know ... a lot of you are saying "Hello Rip Van Winkle! Damn you sleep a lot!" But its true. If someone's giving me grief or the day's just gone to hell and I don't know what to do about it, I simply go bed so it all ends. When I get up, the slate is wiped clean and I can start over. I don't yell or cuss (much) or throw things so it keeps me from making things worse. Of course, if I nod off in the middle of someone getting on to me ... it doesn't help the situation. For the most part, it's been a very successful strategy to avoid trouble that I discovered sitting in class at Seminary. My fellow students would be fighting over what God is really like, and cussing me for whatever I'd said, so I started sleeping through class. It was much easier and I avoided a lot of conflict. But yesterday my Mother called to chastise me for writing about Zombies. Apparently, one of the things I'd written was that if you go to church you'd see a lot of them. I've been to a lot of church services and, believe me, there are a lot of Zombies in church ... NOT EVERYBODY but a lot. Mom doesn't read much of what I write so she heard about it from her friends. They called her up to report "Mike says everybody who goes to church is a Zombie." "Why did you say that?" Mom demanded on the phone. "You're calling your grandparents Zombies." My grandparents, who I love deeply, are both dead and I'm pretty positive having a rocking good time in heaven. They more than earned that. They were loving and gracious people and I think they'd make terrible Zombies. My Grandfather would visit other Zombies and lead them in the Sinner's Prayer before confirming that he would pick them up for Sunday service at the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. My grandmother would cook them all Sunday lunch at her house on Carver Street. Neither are good Zombie material and put them together and you'd witness Zombies being brought back from the dead. Ira and Edith were amazing people ... the epitome of love and definitely not Zombie material. Having said that, I've personally seen Zombies in the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. They care more about sucking the life out of others than giving light and love. When I saw them, I fell asleep. When I woke up, they were gone. Of course no one was in the church except me and I missed my Grandmother's excellent Sunday lunch on Carver Street that the Zombies had been invited to enjoy. When I woke up this time, Mom was still getting on to me so I told her I loved her and hung up. All of which goes to prove, if you believe in Zombies ... you will get in trouble. Your Mother will yell at you. The Braves will drop two straight to the Nationals. You may as well go to bed. What else do you do?