THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION PRODUCED FOR PURPOSES OF ENTERTAINMENT; IT IS NOT MY INTENT TO MOCK OR INSULT ANYONE'S RELIGIOUS BELIEFS.

As a kid, I never understood why people acted so weird in church, and why they expected kids to be all extra-quiet.  It was worse than being in school.  The weirdest adults in church were the older women.  I swear, some of them were so old, they could barely stand up without help; but when that Addams Family organ music came on,  they were suddenly hopping around, throwing off their shawls, their sweaters, their shoes, their wigs, all the while blurting out what sounded like gibberish to me.  'Speaking in tongues,' they called it.  It wasn't uncommon for an ambulance to show up from time to time and take someone away on a stretcher—someone who I always thought was dead, but it would turn out they'd just fainted, because they'd show up in church again the following Sunday.

I didn't get it at all.  My parents once explained that the ladies were catching the Holy Ghost, and that it was a good thing.  I didn't see how being possessed by any kind of ghost was a good thing, but fine, I'm rocking the wisdom of an eight-year old at that time, right? So what the hell did I know?

One day, a woman caught it so bad, she tripped and busted the back of her head on the handle of one of the pews.  She was bleeding something awful.  What got me was that nobody noticed her right away—all caught up like they were in a black Beetlejuice movie.  Praise-dancing, they called it.  My parents clapped and moved side-to-side, but they never got too carried away with it.  I pointed out to my father that the woman had fallen and wasn't getting up.  My father signalled to one of the deacons, who rushed right over to where the woman lay.  That night, I asked my father if he was sure it was the Holy Spirit inside that woman.  You should have seen the way he looked at me, as if I'd asked him if the Holy Bible was written by Stephen King.  He shook his head like I was some kinda wild kid raised by wolves, then he went into the back room to watch his football game.

My mother was a little more laid back and tolerant.  She wanted to know why I would ask such a question.  I felt like the woman got hurt pretty bad worshiping God.  I asked why the Holy Spirit would do that to her.  My mother said it was an accident, that's all.  

“So God makes accidents and mistakes? That's not what they say in Wednesday night bible class,” I countered.  

Then my mother said that sometimes bad things happen to test our faith. “Don't your teachers at school give you tests to make sure you learned all your subjects?” she asked me.

“But you said God knows everything. Why would he hurt us to test us if he already knows how much we know?” I asked.

That's when my mother lost patience and told me to stop asking so many stupid questions.  

The next week at church, they announced that the lady who had fallen, Mother Maybell Evans, didn't make it.  I knew I shouldn't have said anything, but I had to know.  On the ride home, I asked my mother why God killed Ms. Maybell.  At first my mother sighed and looked at my father, who said nothing.  Finally, Mom said that Ms. Maybell was such a good person that God wanted her up there (in heaven) with him.  I didn't know what to do with that information.  Did that mean that the rest of us were lowdown dogs who deserved to stay where we were?  Would our VIP invitations to the Rapture be lost in the mail?