Brothers and Sisters, I have a testimony that God laughs. Mostly at me.
I could cite numberless examples, that would have you all crying at my misfortune (NOT with laughter, you callous fiend!), but I will spare you this time because whenever I start an epic post that tries to summarize more than three events that have happened in my life, I neglect to finish it.
Today, however, a miracle occurred. Because I believed.
I work at the temple Wednesday nights, as the three people who read this blog already know. I would wager that even the most Jack of Mormons knows that in the temple, one wears white. This includes white hose, white slips, white undergarments, and of course, for those who need it, white bras.
So this afternoon I arrived at the temple about ten minutes before my shift started, congratulating myself for being on time for once in my life, mostly because I had chosen to wear a skirt and blouse to school that day. I sauntered into the dressing room, feeling pretty good, and that a thought assaulted my brain that made me stop in my tracks.
I was wearing a dark maroon bra.
This one, in fact. Which would so show even underneath a camisole, slip, and dress, because this is MAROON and all those other items are WHITE.
Seriously? My life is a joke. But now, the miracle!
In the locker room the sisters keep a little box of little bitty bras for my fellow sisters who also occasionally, ahem, forget. To be honest, most of the bras in the box are so small I figure a girl who needed one of those would be just as well off forgoing the bra altogether. My less-endowed girlfriends do it all the time. But maybe some girls find that gross. Anyway, I started going through the box. 34A. 36B. 38A. I hated my life. Then one of the sweet elderly sisters saw my distress and came to my rescue. Together we dug to the bottom of the box. Aha! 38D!
That is, in fact, not my size. I'm actually a DD, if you care. If you don't, then why are you still reading this, you weirdo?
I haven't fit into a D in years. Nevertheless, the adorable lady told me to go try it on, and see if I could get it to fit. I figured it might not be the most comfortable evening of my life, but I could probably manage something.
I went in unto the locker room. I took off my shirt. And to the sound of a chorus of numerous concourses of angels ...
Like a glove. Like the widow's oil cruse. It's not a perfect metaphor, I know. But I was so happy I almost cried. Holy tender mercy, Batman.
I'm expecting a letter from the Vatican any day now.