Signs, Signs, Everywhere There’s Signs

September 27, 2005 at 3:09am By: Mr. Wilson Posted in 625 Elm Street

So there I was, sweatin’ away in the back yard, turning over soil and generally making a mess in preparation for putting down some new grass seed. While I worked, I thought. I’m always thinking about something. Most of the time it’s pretty mundane stuff. At this particular moment I was composing a hypothetical blog post about my newfound love for the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Intelligent Design, and related topics. I thought something to the effect of “...and that’s why I believe in God (or some Higher Power), but Christianity as a whole just doesn’t work for me.” At that exact moment—seriously, at that exact moment—I turned over a shovel-full of soil, and as my thought ended two pencil-thin wood chips landed on top of one another. Perpendicularly. In the shape of a lower-case t. Also known as a cross.

It was by far the most surreal moment I’ve experienced in a long, long time. I couldn’t believe the only one nearby that I could describe the surreality to was Daisy, and she was too busy playing with a mangled (but still flopping) grasshopper to care. I waited for The Booming Voice of God™, or a chorus of angels, or a bright shining light, or something, but nothing else happened. It was just me, the wood chip cross, and a sadistic dog.

Now, my observations of The Way the World Works™ have taught me three things:

  1. There is a God
  2. I’m not Him
  3. He has a dry, even dark sense of humor

This event just helped heap more evidence on the great big pile in support of those three things. Well, except that technically I was the one who made the sticks fall the way they did, so it’s possible that the second point isn’t true. But I wouldn’t bank on that one. I, for one, suspect that I had help.

I have long contended that coincidences are God’s way of having fun with His

creation. He’s a jokester, I tell you. Who but a Great Cosmic Comedian would make every light turn red just when you’re in the biggest hurry? Or make a weird number like pi show up all over the place—even in places that have nothing to do with the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter?

His little stunt tonight is just another one of His gags. He wants me to dwell on the Secret Meaning of the wood chip cross. “Is He trying to tell me not to doubt Christianity?” He wants me to ask. He hopes I get stuck on “Is the cross a red herring?” And I know He’s giggling furiously over my hesitance to disturb the cross. It’s still sitting out there right now. He’s a real ham, that God.

Is there any meaning in the wood chip cross? I don’t have the slightest idea. But I’m serious when I tell you that the wood chips formed the cross exactly as I finished my heretical thought. I wouldn’t have wasted all this time writing this post if it happened any other way. I doubt I’ll give the wood chip cross much thought after tonight. But I tell you one thing, if I wake up in the morning and there’s a flower growing there, or a dove sitting on that spot, I’m going to be one very, very confused Mr. Wilson.

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