WWJD?
This is post 15 of Section II. To begin at the beginning, go here. Section II begins here.
Jeff tapped his pen on his books. “Freud . . . Isn’t he the guy who says everybody wants to sleep with their mother?”
“Yes. Good.”
“If you ask me, that’s just plain disgusting. I mean—come on.” He shook his head vigorously to clear it of such filth.
Chloe pondered the hopelessness of explaining psychoanalytic theory to someone who attributed mental illness to demonic possession. She was just about to try anyway when Jeff changed the subject. “Say, Miz Weems, are you related to that Dr. Weems who teaches the technical rottin’ class at night? ’Cause I’m takin’ that.”
Chloe smiled. “Yes. He’s my husband.”
“He is?” It was a carefully neutral tone, accompanied by a curious, penetrating gaze from the closely set hazel eyes. Then Jeff stood up, pushing his chair back into position with his usual methodical politeness. At the door he turned and looked back, fumbling in his shirt pocket with his free hand. “Listen, Miz Weems. I’m gonna give you my card. I know you say you don’t wanna get saved an’ all, and you know that bothers me—but I just want you to have it in case you ever need anything. Anything at all.”
Chloe rose and took it. “Jeffrey Morgan,” it read. “Youth Leader, Mountain View Baptist Church, Hardwater, GA.” Then his phone number and e-mail address, and WWJD (for “What would Jesus do?”) at the bottom.
“Thanks, Jeff,” she said, “but I’m really fine.”
“Well that’s good, Miz Weems. And thank you ma’am. You’ve been a big help.”
“Any time.”
Continue
Jeff tapped his pen on his books. “Freud . . . Isn’t he the guy who says everybody wants to sleep with their mother?”
“Yes. Good.”
“If you ask me, that’s just plain disgusting. I mean—come on.” He shook his head vigorously to clear it of such filth.
Chloe pondered the hopelessness of explaining psychoanalytic theory to someone who attributed mental illness to demonic possession. She was just about to try anyway when Jeff changed the subject. “Say, Miz Weems, are you related to that Dr. Weems who teaches the technical rottin’ class at night? ’Cause I’m takin’ that.”
Chloe smiled. “Yes. He’s my husband.”
“He is?” It was a carefully neutral tone, accompanied by a curious, penetrating gaze from the closely set hazel eyes. Then Jeff stood up, pushing his chair back into position with his usual methodical politeness. At the door he turned and looked back, fumbling in his shirt pocket with his free hand. “Listen, Miz Weems. I’m gonna give you my card. I know you say you don’t wanna get saved an’ all, and you know that bothers me—but I just want you to have it in case you ever need anything. Anything at all.”
Chloe rose and took it. “Jeffrey Morgan,” it read. “Youth Leader, Mountain View Baptist Church, Hardwater, GA.” Then his phone number and e-mail address, and WWJD (for “What would Jesus do?”) at the bottom.
“Thanks, Jeff,” she said, “but I’m really fine.”
“Well that’s good, Miz Weems. And thank you ma’am. You’ve been a big help.”
“Any time.”
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 7:29 PM
2 Comments:
Your husband? Duh! Better grab a six pack of Jesus Juice and head over to the youth camp!
Jeff knows something, doesn't he?
You always have to watch the Christians. Your lucky when our hands are just in your pocket.
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