The Way I Pray

I was on the phone with my mom on Tuesday morning while I was at the airport getting ready to head up to San Francisco. She's always worried about me and my immortal soul, and as usual, she mentioned to me how important it is that I pray more.

"Mom, I pray every time I get on an airplane," I told her. "It's like this: 'Dear God, now, wouldn't it be a shame for you to strike down all these good people sitting around me just because I'm a bad person? Do you really want to do that? I think it would probably be better if you just waited to smite me until after we land.' Because you know, with me on the plane, it's like a hostage situation for all those other folks."

For some reason, she didn't think that was very amusing.

Perhaps in retribution for my scandalous efforts at prayer, on the flight home I awoke to hear a startling, nerve-wracking alarm sounding over and over. I watched a flight attendant fiddle with something up front, and then the plane banked sharply. "Great," I muttered. "I'm going to die over Burbank Airport." Oddly enough, while I was vaguely frightened, my most overwhelming emotion was defeatist acceptance. ("Well, I guess I had it coming," I remember thinking.)

Obviously, everything ended up fine; the alarm stopped and we landed safely without any further issues. I did call a couple of people to share my possibly-near-death experience, but I think I'll refrain from telling my mom about it just yet.