I wasn’t too worried about my Upper GI this morning — until I heard the woman in the examination stall next to me.
“Heavenly Father, thank you for saving my soul. Please Jesus, help me through this. Bless my children, my mother, my father, my sisters. Help John and Tina, help them get back to church …”
She repeated this prayer, in thick mountain twang, about a half-dozen times, as if the plane was going down and she had minutes to live. I started getting worried, then annoyed. Fortunately — or unfortunately — the acrid taste of the Barium drowned out her lamentations.
