An Embarrassing Easter Story. Why Not?

by Lorna's Voice
Yup, I know how you feel Eunice. Someone in the family tells you to bring "dessert" to the family dinner but half of them are vegan-glutton-free-no-sugar freaks and the the other half think donuts are the healthy alternative to Pop-Tarts. Phoning a friend isn't going to help. Phoning a travel agent might, though...

Yup, I know how you feel Eunice. Someone in the family tells you to bring “dessert” to the family dinner but half of them are vegan-glutton-free-no-sugar freaks and the other half think donuts are the healthy alternative to Pop-Tarts. Phoning a friend isn’t going to help. Phoning a travel agent might, though…

Holidays of any kind–religious or secular–are simply not my thing. Too much fuss for my Highly Sensitive Person self and enough disturbing memories to just want to stay home alone and do something productive like blog or watch reruns of Mr. Ed, who was a very wise horse, indeed.

I always think glasses make a person look smart, don't you? Same goes for horses in my book...

I always think glasses make a person look smart, don’t you? Same goes for horses in my book…

Just to convince you that I’m not making this stuff up (at least the disturbing memories part), here’s a snippet from my memoir. This actually happened to me when I was about 11 or 12 on Good Friday, before Easter.

I'm in the middle. Also, this picture was taken when we were all a bit younger than when the following story took place, but you can see that we took our Easter Bonnet church duties quite seriously back then.

I’m in the middle. Also, this picture was taken when we were all a bit younger than when the following story took place, but you can see that we took our Easter Bonnet church duties quite seriously back then.

***

During the tortuous Catholic celebration leading up to Easter, I attended the interminable Stations of the Cross. This very solemn ritual was held on Friday of Holy Week. It was called Holy Week because Good Friday lasted about a week. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. On the Good Friday in question, instead of feeling pious or sad for Jesus for having to carry his own cross, I felt the need to go to the bathroom. I’d had an egg salad sandwich for lunch before going to church. There should be a rule against egg salad before church. Slipping out of the pew to find a bathroom never crossed my mind. Did churches even have bathrooms? It seemed unholy to pee or poop in church.

I felt rumbling in my belly, then lower. Squirming to prevent an explosion only got me looks of disapproval from Mémé [my grandmother] and Mom. Soon Pépé [my step-grandfather]  and my sisters were taking an interest in the developments. Holding in the amassing gas was agonizing, but letting it out was inconceivable. I’d rather be taken out on a stretcher with a burst intestine than fart in church.

But of course physiology won out over dignity, and out came a long, loud, send-me-to-Hell-for-sure fart. During a moment of silent prayer. Any physical relief I felt was overshadowed by my unspeakable embarrassment and the foul odor that was surging up like a tiny mushroom cloud. There was no hiding who’d done it. I blushed a divine shade of cardinal red from scalp to sole; Judgment Day was upon me, and it wasn’t looking (or smelling) very good. While everyone else in the church did their best to overlook my noxious, broken-muffler, butt noise, my family felt obliged to react.

“Lorna!” Mom and Mémé whispered in unified mortification.

“Lorna!” Pépé and my sisters whispered in wonder and with a touch of respect.

To seal my wickedness, laughter bubbled up uncontrollably in me. It was just like the smelly fart. It was as if Beelzebub himself were possessing me. I was his foul instrument, and there was no stopping my blasphemous laughter. I bowed my head so no one could tell if my heaving shoulders were evidence of sobs for Jesus’ suffering or devil-possessed fart-giggles. I tried to look reverent, but my reputation was forevermore soiled.

My underpants were, too.

***

Have a Happy Easter and go easy on the eggs. Trust me on that one!

Remember, you can't blame everything on the dog or the grandparents...

Remember, you can’t blame everything on the dog or the grandparents…

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29 Responses to “An Embarrassing Easter Story. Why Not?”

  1. Oh Lorna… only you … I have probably just soiled myself laughing at your story… I have often wondered why such a natural occurrence has always managed to draw a laugh or at the very least a smile from all around…till the odour arrives and faces change from smile to grim in the flash of an eye… thank you for the laugh..I really enjoyed…

  2. That, my friend, is a very priceless memory. Thanks for sharing.
    Happy Easter!

  3. Thank you for the laughs! I doubt you are the only one ever to do that! 🙂

    • That’s why I share stories like these. I know I can’t be alone, so if anyone is out there feeling all terrible about doing something like this (or worse), I want to show them that’s it’s okay to be human and laugh. 🙂

  4. You can never go wrong with a fart story. Happy Easter!

  5. Happy Easter Lorna big smiles again 😉

  6. Once again, I made the stupid idiotic mistake of drinking tea while reading one of my favorite authors, a masterful humorist and writer, and well, I’m glad I still have a keyboard to type on. Thank you for having this wonderful author and woman to your site. I read and loved her book and follow her site, a total delight. Paulette

  7. Reblogged this on The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap and commented:
    I love this author and sister blogger and if you haven’t visited her site she is a humorist supreme. It’s a very rare gift to write humorously, especially in a very serious context and pull it off. Lorna does and does it brilliantly (from my humble opinion). Her memoir is something I will read and read again. It is poignant and heartbreaking but also made me laugh myself silly. Wishing everyone a belated Happy Easter. Wishing everyone a very Happy Every Day.

  8. This is so true in a church when all is solemn and suddenly BOOM. There goes the congregation running out of the church for a breath of fresh air.

  9. Lorna, As I wipe the tears of joy and laughter from my eyes, I am so so very thankful that “the Persecution of Mildred Dunlap” shared your post with me. Having passed some gas in public over the years, I find no memory that tops your experience. It truly is blessed to not be the best at some things. Thank you, Bill

    • Happy to oblige! I certainly don’t mean to one-up anyone in the fart-story department. That would be an awful thing to put one one’s tombstone: I had the best fart story. 😉

      Thanks for stopping in and commenting. That Paulette is a great person!

  10. I believe that is why, in fact, churches have such high ceilings . . . to get the gas above the burning incense as quickly as possible, thus averting further calamities, like altar boys with singed eyebrows.

  11. This is outrageously hilarious, let alone sacrilrgious (sorry I mean NOT).

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