I guess you could call it an epiphany.
After many years of being an outsider, I've finally been granted membership to "the" club. It is a club that has many, often famous, members. It is the club that has blessed members because Almighty God himself has spoken to them all. Among those who belong are television preachers delivering the Lord's will to the masses, sports stars who cross themselves before shooting a free throw and give "all praise to God" when he guides them to victory, and the homeless people walking down Pine Avenue having what may appear to the uninitiated to be animated conversations with themselves.
Yes, they all have been granted the privilege denied to most of us, they have heard the voice of God with their own ears. Now, finally, I can be counted among them. Well, almost.
While God has not yet spoken directly to me, I have reason to believe that I have deciphered his "signs." The message is clear: God wants us to stop eating fast food.
The first time that the good Lord sent a "sign" my way was at Mike Hudson's birthday party at Marsil's. It arrived in the form of a golden earthly angel known by the name of Rebecca. Rebecca, from the Old Testament, wife of Isaac and mother of Jacob and Esau, is a good friend of the paper and is engaged to an airplane pilot or, as they're known to the many tribes of the rain forest, "He who flies closest to God." The name Rebecca means captivating and that is exactly what she was as she told me of the reasons that she has chosen a vegan lifestyle and of the ungodly horrors perpetrated by the fast food industry.
This conversation took place against the tantalizing backdrop of a home-cooked Polish smorgasbord laid out in celebration of Mike's birthday. Those gathered, as if awakening from a lost weekend of too much partying, were drawn to the sweet array of foods much as moths are drawn to the flame.
Possibly from too many years of thinking of the phrase "Super-size that, please" as dinner banter, they found their senses aroused and couldn't stop talking about the wonderful sensations that the food was providing to their taste buds.
"This is really good." "What spice do you think is in this dish?" "How can I get this recipe?"
All the while, the angel known as Rebecca stirred her rice and vegetables and smiled a knowing smile.
That should have been enough to convince me. But, like many heathens, I was slow on the uptake.
Next time, the good Lord sent a more famous earth angel and he made sure that I couldn't miss her. Pamela, from the Greek word meaning "honeyed," appeared to me in the form of a giant billboard on the I-290. Intoxicated by the resplendent beauty of the former "Baywatch" star, it took me a good four passes before I realized that her image came attached to a message. There it was, just to the right of her five-story-high cleavage.
"Boycott KFC. Live scalding, painful debeaking, crippled chickens."
It was at that point that I really started to think that God was trying to speak to me. Besides, it was the Easter/Passover season, wasn't it? Simple math will tell you that if you eliminate all meat and breads from your diet it, doesn't leave much left to eat except vegetables.
God wasn't taking any chances with me, however. The next sign was sent not only for my eyes, but for the eyes of us all. Anna, from the Hebrew word for "gracious," Ayala was dining at a Wendy's in San Jose, Calif., when she found part of a human finger in her bowl of chili.
I would like to think that, having given man such an affinity for language, God is a bit of a wordsmith. How else to explain why the last message would be sent in such a fashion that nobody could deny that it came from "the hand of God" himself? And at whom was the finger pointing? At Anna, to be sure, but was it not pointing at all of us?
It was as if God wanted us all to know that he's watching us drag down our society through the evils of fast food. He's tired of watching us blow up like helium balloons at a birthday party. He's shed tears over the lost art of dinner conversation, that which cannot be heard over the crumpling of Big Mac wrappers and the flattening of French fry boxes. He has had enough of watching us buzz through drive-through windows and stuff burgers into our mouths while we clock 65 mph down the highway.
To drive home this point, God has done the unthinkable -- he's sided with the French. In her national best-selling book, "French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure,'' author Mireille Guiliano states that the reason that the French can eat so much rich food and still remain slim is because they have removed the "fast" from their food diet. The French eat their meals over good, in-depth conversation and leave as much on their plates as they put into their bellies. Contrast that with Americans' habit of shoveling fast food into our mouths with the speed of a steam shovel locked in high gear and it's not difficult to understand why God is so angry with us.
As I accepted the signs, I realized that they'd been there all along. I'd just failed to see them. Degreaser sprayed on a Whopper, a bat found in an A and W burger, syringes found in food at the Pine Avenue McDonald's. How much clearer could God's meaning be?
Since I saw the light, I have only been to a fast food restaurant twice and in each instance I ordered nothing but a prepackaged salad. I resisted the temptation of Satan's call.
You can keep your Quarter Pounders, your Whoppers and your Big Boys. I've seen the signs and no longer will I join together the words fast and food. Just as he sent Charlie the angels Kelly, Jill and Sabrina, so too has God sent his messengers my way.
I am officially a member of the "spoken to by God" club and I owe it all to my triumvirate of messengers. The angels known as Rebecca, Pam and Anna.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | March 29 2005 |