Aj Schwanz

The other day I was driving home from the library, and I had a thought (no, it didn’t hurt much). I grabbed my cell phone, because sadly enough, it’s much safer for me to talk on the phone while a certain Little Man is contained by straps in his carseat than it is to talk on the phone at home when Dr. Entropy has no restraints.

“Rose Valley Friends Church, Bobbi speaking.”
“Hi, may I please speak to Joe Gerick?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“His daughter”
“Oh, just a moment.”
[Long pause.]

“Elllo?”
“Okay, so I read the chapter out of the book you gave me, and if we’re supposed to do all things with praise and thanksgiving and not grumble at all, then how do we exist in a dysfunctional church situation? Cause the New Testament may not have any grumbling in it, but it certainly does call Christians out when they’re not following their role as part of the body of Christ. So how do you live in that situation?”
“Uhhhhhhh . . . . .”
[Pause]
“Wait: you’re not my dad.”

Nope: I had reached my dad’s co-pastor whose daughter happened to call when I did; the lines got crossed.

“Nope, he’s on the line with my daughter, and I really hope she’s asking him an easier question than that!”

I apologized profusely, laughing (and my backseat driver was laughing as well; he didn’t know why; he just thought it was appropriate), explaining how I tend to just dive into conversations with my dad because I like to keep him off balance (I feel it’s my duty as his daughter to keep him on his toes and not always be so confident in his answers).

So I finally got connected with my dad:
“Hey, Sweetie!”
“Oh, Dad, two things: I think I really confused Jeff, and I think he’s *REALLY* glad I’m not his daughter.”

Dad laughed. A lot.

And of course he had an answer and more. Cause that’s Dad: he knows. And that’s me: I confuse.