Saturday night, I made a last-minute decision to go out.
And by last-minute, I mean an old friend had invited me to go out on Saturday night like last week, but he’s notorious for breaking plans, so I didn’t think he’d actually follow through, and then when he did, I was all “Umm, Ok. I guess I can meet up with you.”
But it ended up being mid-night by the time I got to the club and I had to be to church by 9 a.m., so this was kind of a stupid decision.
Some people were like, “just skip church” but youth group leaders can never “just skip church.” So I hunkered down, and told my body that I’d be up all night and then do church and then sleep forever.
I also brought a toothbrush in case I ended up going straight from “friends in Palatine” to “church in Woodstock.”
But then, just in case I was having any doubt whatsoever about making it to church on time, God appeared.
While, actually, it was his son. On my hand.
Everyone’s hand.
It was the bar’s stamp showing you’d paid cover.
What the heck kind of bar does that? It’s like putting calorie counts on French fries, or having a little clock tell you how much of your life you just wasted on Facebook . It’s weird.
I mean, I wasn’t planning to go on some sort of sin rampage or anything, but still.
Seeing the son of God just chilling on my right hand, smiling at me, like he knew something was throwing me off. It was like he was planning to intervene later if needed. And for some reason, he thought it’d be needed.
The bartender tried to claim it was a picture of the DJ, but that made no sense at all, seeing as how there was a BAND playing.
Clearly, I made it to church on time. Early, actually.
– My Jesus stamp.
