Fling With Calamity

Calamity ended on Thursday, but began again on Tuesday.
I had a good weekend in between.
Sunday put it in perspective.
I went to church, and walking in I knelt, because that may be what you're supposed to do in churches, crossed my heart and hoped not to die, and sat in a pew. I hadn't been to church in a while. It was a nice church. Catholic -- the Catholics build the nicest churches -- and quiet. I sat, silent, and stared at the domed ceiling and buttresses. And stared at the golden crosses and stain-glass windows. And listened to the quiet, then prayed.
I couldn't think of anything to start the prayer off with, so I thanked God for soccer, and another Bayern Munich win, and the warmer weather, the bus not being late today, corrective lenses, my shoes which I just cleaned, and my new shirt which I felt I looked particularly good in.
Then I thought about laundry and asked God to remind me to do my laundry, hopefully in the morning, when was best for me. Then there was my laundry list, a list that was a jumble of to-do's that I couldn't do myself. And I hated to think that I was incapable of doing things, so I thought about it, but didn't pray it, feeling inferior, and skirted the issue.
Then I thought about the list. About budgets, aighlments, conditions, predictions, doctor's opinions, horror stories, fears, uneasy feeling, tense moments, akward silences, unreturned phone calls, unbalanced checkbooks, empty bank acocunts, scratched CDs, and, of course, the end.
And the flood gates opened. And I prayed that they'd close again.
And added that God help my mother, brother, father and Oma. And my health. And girlfriend, past and present. My roommate, past and present. Their fathers and mothers and brothers. And I prayed that my cell phone finally get a signal in the living room of my apartment. And that I wouldn't have insomnia again tonight, that I find some meaning when I'm thinking about what meaning my life has tonight.
And I prayed that wars end, but decided that was too vast to pray about. So I asked God to consider making the World Cup an event that happens every two years instead of four, for prosperity's sake, but then remembered that there's also the European Cup to pass the time. And basketball. And proper football. And internet radio. And Netflix. And cable. And cheese cake. And text messaging. And beer. And I thanked God for all of these things, decided that my prayer wasn't narrow enough, recinded my last comment of thanks and just grouped everything into one big category of things to be thankful for, a category opposite the category of things not to be thankful for. Those were things that really made me feel bad.
Then I wondered if there really was a God. Why would God want me to feel bad?
I dismissed the notion. There's not enough time in the day for God not to exisit. Only a higher power could coordinate such rediculous deadlines, and rediculous impulses in my brain.
I asked God to pull me from the edge.
I was flirting with calamity, and I don't mean a stripper who may be named such.
Maybe he heard me.
When I left the church the sun had set and the wind was picking up and my knee was chaffed from kneeling. I'm not used to kneeling.