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How Evangelism Helped My Family


Jerry, my cousin, was a truck driver.  At some point my Aunt Margie and my Grandma, whom they called Money because as a child Aunt Margie was too stupid to say Mommy, I always thought it was because she was like a bank for everyone, talked Jerry into driving them up to Oregon to see Oral Roberts.  They were avid television watchers of his show and they were convinced that if he slapped them in the forehead, they would be HEALED!

                So, they went.  I stayed home and watched her dog named Snuskin Rouskin.  Which in some former Russian country means “precious one.”  I always debated who my Grandmother loved most, the dog, myself or my cousin who was constantly gaining my inheritance by needing bail money.  She told me it was okay, his ship would come in soon and we waited and waited for that ship.   No matter how many times I went to Marina Del Rey for brunch with my parents and watched the docks and dining liners circle, I never saw George’s ship.

                When my aunt, cousin and grandmother returned Jerry told us what the experience was like.  

                “So, we’re walking in from the parking lot and your aunt says, I’m gonna ask him to heal me so I won’t want a drink anymore.  Your grandmother says she’s gonna ask him to cure her hearing so she won’t need hearing aids anymore.”  He takes a swig of pepsi and has his shit eating grin on.  Jerry’s grin was always shit eating; it was something he just couldn’t help.

                “So, after they get hit in the head and fall down, we leave.   In the parking lot, on the way back to the truck your aunt is saying ‘God I need a drink.’ And  your Grandmother is replying, ‘What?’?  Over and over again the whole way home.”

                At the age of seven, I knew this was funny.  

                It’s still funny.

                And this story, true, is not even close to the tip of the iceberg.

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