I heard a cry, the grievous moan of a fallen warrior, and I spun around on my black-sandaled heal to find my pastor wounded, crumpled on the gray tile floor in a pool of his own, thick blood.
His leg was missing.
“Noooo!” I howled, lurching for the scene, but the enemy was too quick, too skilled, too bent upon his prey. He raised his saber high and abruptly, mercilessly went for the kill.
I won’t soon forget the violent sight of my limbless pastor bleeding on the floor, nor the sound of the nearby churchy witnesses gasping and hiding their faces behind shaking hands.
But not all hope was lost.
The enemy, in his reckless drive towards victory, had committed one fatal mistake. He had paused in his final strike, and I, as a result, had caught a glimpse of his red-and-black weapon. It was not just any saber. It was a rolled up edition of The Lutheran Witness.
In that moment, I did what any self-respecting Lutheran woman would do. I reached for the shield of choice, the only one which could deflect the blows of such a force. I reached for the large-print edition of The Portals of Prayer and held on for dear life.
“Aaaaahhhhh!!!” The enemy cried, rushing towards me like a mad bull towards a quivering red cape, but I held strong.
“Fzzzzzzzzz,” the electric forcefield of my Portals of Prayer pulsed, deflecting blow after blow from my three-foot-high foe.
There is an end to this story, one which defies all laws of physics and copyright. The enemy’s parents soon intervened, corralling boyish violence towards the family van, and, according to the promises we the Baptized hold dear, the pastor did indeed miraculously resurrect in time for Sunday lunch.
The moral of this story?
Well, I can make no promises as to whether or not the Portals of Prayer always succeeds in overcoming The Lutheran Witness in force and power nor as to whether or not the size of the font matters in the end, but I can say this:
A childless pastor and his wife sure know how to have fun with Little Lutherans after church.