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Armageddon is a-comin’

My alarm clock sounds like Armageddon.

My husband’s alarm clock sounds like Armageddon.

His Armageddon comes earlier than mine, so when the disaster alert sounded this morning—

WAH!  WAH!  WAH!  WAH!  WAH!

I poked—

WAH!  WAH!  WAH!

then elbowed—

WAH!  WAH!  WAH!

then finally smacked the lump next to me. It was his pillow. He had gotten up before the alarm and had forgotten to turn it off.

Rolling over, I got halfway tangled in the sheets, so it was a frustrating struggle to reach his clock. It wouldn’t turn off. Desperate and confused, I started to punch every single button and—

WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!! 

Armageddon in stereo. God was serious.

I always thought there’d be time to pack a bag. I always thought there’d be time to go to confession. It had been almost four weeks, and you won’t believe what wickedness I can squeeze into twenty-eight days.

WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!

Worst, the last time my husband asked when I was going to clean the house, I told him I’d do it sometime before the end of the world. I did not want scrubbing the bowl to be the last thing I ever did.

WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!

At least one good thing about Armageddon in stereo is that it really wakes you up. I finally realized that the disaster alert had been my clock, and not my husband’s. And in mistakenly trying to turn his off, I only ended up turning it on.

Still half-tangled in the sheets, I rolled back toward my clock, which only resulted in my getting  fully tangled. I couldn’t move. I was tied down, like in the strait-jacket I know I’m going to need some day.

WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!  WAH-wah!!

At least I didn’t have to clean house.

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