Up Jumped the Deviled Eggs

First let me say that I don’t know why they are called deviled eggs, as if there were something sinful about something so wholesome. As I understand it, when you chop up something then add spices, it’s deviled. I never thought that mashing up cooked egg yokes and adding a little mayo and paprika plus, of course, my secret ingredient would somehow crack the door to let Satan into the church fellowship hall. But clearly it did, which explains why the pastor ended up with, among other things, egg on his face and, if I have anything to say about it, that little spawn-of-Satan, Sammy Snert, will not be joining the others as they head out into the wilderness to come to Jesus.

Oh my heavens, I’m getting ahead of the story, which I need to tell so that my reputation re mains untarnished and to remove any blame that may be placed on my plate of secret-recipe deviled eggs—a family favorite that has been handed down for generations.

We church ladies were having a potluck with the usual free-will offering to raise money to send the little heathens we call “at-risk youth” to summer camp to divert them from the highway of sin they travel on to a better and more righteous path in life. First off, my heavens, it will take more than incinerating marshmallows around a campfire and whittling sticks (should we even give them knives?) to help them find the path of righteousness, but I suppose we must try. And of course good deeds take money. But back to the buffet line. The term “free will” implies that you need only contribute if you feel so inclined. Just as the Lord gives us free will so do the church ladies who organize the potluck. The fact that the collection basket with the large- print sign “FREE-WILL OFFERING” was strategically located by the paper plates and napkins at the beginning of the buffet line was of no consequence. The fact that there was a nice, crisp $20 bill conspicuously placed in the basket was also simply a suggestion and by no means implied a requirement. Also, the accusation that we church women lurk nearby, casting judgmental looks at those who hesitate to understand the concept of free will, is simply rubbish. The women who lurked—er—stood nearby were making certain that there was plenty of food, napkins and so on. Of course we kept an eye on the offering basket too, in case it should overflow. That’s how the misunderstanding began: with an overflowing basket of free will.

The idea that somehow sending a bunch of youthful miscreants to the Wayward Bound Youth Camp will transform them from delinquent-hood into a sainthood is, at best, overly optimistic. How anyone figures stirring all of those