Blasphemy

It starts off as a smirk. Then my lips press together trying to suppress the intrusion on the quiet. My body starts shaking, my eyes water, little sounds escape my mouth and nose. If I am lucky, I can calm myself down and no one will notice. More likely, J starts jabbing me in the ribs and giving me dirty “knock that off” looks. In church, sounds carry into the lofty heavenly starred ceiling, around the heavy wooden pews, and through velvet curtains hiding alter boys burning candles in the dim light. The women dressed in summer pinks and greens, the men in dark suits and ties, gentle smiles on their faces, facing forward to watch the one in white, the one in black, holding hands and beaming at one another, as I shake in my seat and try not to make a scene. It’s not my day to be the center of attention, but with the laughter bubbling and roiling inside, a few turn to look, which makes the whole thing even more hilarious for me and I cannot stop.

The first time it happened, when having babies for Jesus and husband was proclaimed the ultimate goal in the young brides life, the laughter inside was so acute and violent I almost had to excuse myself from the cathedral. The priest continued on with antiquated requirements of husband and wife, not excluding a requirement of a spiritual threesome with JC himself. I mean, I believe in marriage, I believe in family, but some of the Latin-tinged lingo spilling out of the priest's lips sent me into disbelieving hysterics.

Have I mentioned yet that I don’t go to church?

Subsequent ceremonies have not elicited such a dramatic response, and the laughter has died down with a few deep breaths and only a minor jab in the ribs from J (Dead puppies, think of dead puppies.) I always think I will be able to control myself, not allow the giggles to emerge and overflow and blanket the church floor with my blasphemous impulses.

Next time I will sit in the back row so I can escape quickly and quietly, run through the thick, heavily ornamented wooden doors, bury my face in my hands, laugh until I cry, and wonder if I am a baby my mom promised to have for Jesus.