It’s that time of season. Flora is flirting with the fauna; the summer breeze is testing flight patterns. Colors. Glorious greens, prominent purples, the whispers of the white apple blossoms capture my interest, adding to the sweet smells of a clean river flowing beyond the borderline. Nature is singing and I’m vibing, or I was until the arrival of the innocuous yet oh a so irritating doorbell ringing proselytizers intent on witnessing my conversion to a loving Jesus.

The faithful of Yahweh usually come in twos: nondescript middle-aged females with a pathos that beckons my inner-therapist. But I don’t give in to empathy. I refuse their idea of salvation and wish them well. They offer me their latest pamphlet glorifying the rapture, but I again refuse, telling them Mimi Rogers already enraptured in 1991.

The faithful of Yahweh will make intermittent return visits; some even remember my name, my face. Most are still confused about Mimi and me, but that’s okay, it takes time for a convergence. I promise them I’ll be happy to witness their understanding of what they don’t understand; I wish them well.

But the irritating doorbell proselytizers reappear in different bodies intent on a different mindset—they not only ring the doorbell, they pound on the door announcing their presence to any demons hiding and scheming spiritual possession with the confines of my abode. They don’t speak of the rapture, nor do they care about Mimi and me, they instead want to do some testifying with a whole load of amens punctuated within Jesus’ fervent love for me. They are blind but can’t see my irritation. The Holy Spirit is busy sanctifying their bliss.

Every so often, my anger tends to testify. The religion of anger confuses these  doorbell proselytizers. But I baptize them. Can I get an amen? Now I be testifying. “Sweet Jesus do you hear me?” I ask them.

The doorbell proselytizers look confused.

“Don’t you hear Him?”

Again… more doorbell proselytizing confusion.

“Doesn't  Jesus speak to you?”

The doorbell proselytizers nod their heads.

“I say, does Jesus speak to you… can I get an amen!”

The doorbell proselytizers give me a muffled amen.

“What’s that Jesus? Oh yes… I hear you. Oh sweet glory. Can you give me another amen?”

The doorbell proselytizers step back from my front door. One says she can hear Jesus, but not in a Jonathan Edwards-Cotton Mather fervent kind of way.

“Yes Jesus. I’ll tell them. Oh sweet Lord. Yes… yes...!” I begin a religious two-stepping boogie.

One of the doorbell proselytizers shakes a can of mace as his fellow proselytizer asks me for Jesus’ message.

“If you truly believed, you’d know.” I lift some sweat from my forehead as if it's holy water.

The doorbell proselytizer who hears Jesus, opens her Bible; she lifts it towards the sky. She starts her own religious two-stepping boogie.

I ask her for Jesus' message.

She's so enthralled by the moment, she can't speak. So I do on her behalf.

“Jesus insists you two go sanctifying elsewhere. My waffles are getting cold.”