Last night, after a long day of parenting, we fed our kid some french fries, washed him down, struggled through bedtime book reading and the recitation of “if you come out of your room, you’ll get a spanking” … and then … finally, at 7 p.m. Husband and I collapsed into a heap.
We laid there and stared at the ceiling. My ears were ringing because after a day of nonstop noise, it was finally quiet.
Two seconds later, the doorbell rang.
Our porch light wasn’t on. I was annoyed before I even got down the stairs to see who it was. Who could possibly be ringing our bell at this hour (I know … 7:00 … I fear I’ve become a sad person)?!?
It was two teenage girls bearing backpacks, braids, and name tags. They wanted to know if I would like to hear about Christ.
Now, I can respect that. I’m a God-fearer. But I had just put my kid to bed, and I was flat out of patience and niceness. Also, in all honesty, door-to-door people of any sort make me uncomfortable. I wanted to rid myself of them as soon as possible.
I heard them out, forced a smile, said “we’re good,” and bid them goodnight. One of them stopped me and asked if we knew of anyone who needed to hear the Word. I mumbled something about how I don’t really know my neighbors. They just stared at me, so I shouted a cheery “GOOD LUCK!” before I closed the door.
Then I felt guilty. But really, the last thing I needed was to have two 16-year-olds in my living room sharing the good news. I know the news, thank you.
What I needed, I decided, was a cocktail.
Now I’m trying to decide what kind of person that makes me; to dismiss two missionary-types and wish for a cocktail, then be annoyed that I’m pregnant and cannot partake. Perhaps I needed some good news after all.