I am a good gambler, but I might have gone too far this time.
As a child, I was so bored I gambled with my siblings whether dad would wear the blue or red suit, or on the score of the Springfield Prairie Dogs. I always won. As a housewife, I continued to gamble – the jellybean jar at the PTA fundraiser, church bingo, the daily lotto. For John’s office fantasy football, my lineup always came in. On the family trip to Vegas, I brought home $8000 after taxes.
I don’t care about the money. It’s winning I need. It’s the rush. That power. Anybody can do the laundry, or drive to the supermarket, or give birth. It’s the ante, the stakes, winner take all. It feeds me.
I ran into God at the QuickMart. We made a big wager. God bet me that all of my three children would be successful in life. I countered my youngest, Malcolm, would be a failure. If I win – I become god. If I lose – I never gamble again. It’s stacked in my favor. Being his mom, I let Malcolm struggle over homework, convinced him he’d never get a role in the school play, and explained why the other kids don’t like him. It’s easy to crush his young aspirations.
But now God has raised the stakes. Waiting at the hospital while they pump out the pills Malcolm took, I wonder – should I fold or go for God?