The other day my daughter was up visiting and—in keeping with the season—we got to talking about haunted houses. She reminded me of a story that I hadn’t thought about for a while…
About five years ago, my husband and I attended a hip-hop concert concert at a coffee shop. That genre isn’t usually my cup of tea, but the featured artist was a friend. The pessimist in me did not anticipate actually appreciating the music. Still, I was glad enough to support a friend.
Much to my astonishment, I came away truly impressed with his authenticity, his creativity, his boldly Christ-centered message, and his phenomenal stage presence. I guess even I can connect with and enjoy hip-hop.
There is a little relevancy buried inside of me after all.
But this post isn’t actually about the concert.
You see, we also happened to be acquainted with the owner of the coffee shop. And it happened to be the opening night of the haunted house he had put together in the cafe’s spooky basement. He was excited about it and asked us to check it out…a couple of times. We politely declined both.
My husband is never impressed with the lack of actual adrenaline stimulation provided by those things, and even if they do manage to pull off scary (instead of just gory)…I actually don’t enjoy being scared. Between the two of us, there was simply no compulsion to spend money that way.
However, the third and final time our friend approached us, he offered to let us go through for free if we would be the guinea pigs and test it out before he opened it to the public.
Sure, why not.
We felt our way through the dark, winding passageways—complete with dry ice, fake spider webs, eerie noises, disturbing torture scenes, and screaming people violating our personal space.
Par for the course.
As we neared the end, however, we turned a corner. Through the strobe lights, I could barely make out what appeared to be someone’s derriere sailing through the air toward us from the other end of the corridor. As it got closer, I could see that it was indeed a rear end—and it was indeed levitating and speeding toward us! It didn’t seem to be slowing down either. I remember thinking that it didn’t have enough time to stop before it hit us.
The butt slammed into my shoulder. My husband promptly shoved the hiney off of me and sent it shooting back in the direction it had come from.
It was probably good that we were able to do the test run and alert the team to a couple of minor hiccups in production. Namely, that the screaming guy on the zip line really ought to be facing forward…and perhaps he should have a way to stop before actually smacking into people.
That was by far the scariest thing that has ever happened to me in a haunted house.
Now, usually when I tell a story like that I have some sort of devotional, spiritual application, or biblical parallel in mind. No so this time. I’ve got no inspiration for this one. I just thought it was a funny story, and hoped you might get a chuckle out of it too.
However, if you have a moral, principle, or spiritual analogy that you think fits well with my little anecdote, please comment. I’d love to hear it!