Humble Pie is Yucky

According to one of those online dictionaries that defines weirdo sayings and expressions like ‘selfie’ or ‘awesome sauce’ the phrase ‘humble pie’ means: to have to apologize and/or face HUMILIATION and originated from the dish "umbles pie" which peasants ate in medieval times (umbles are the innards of deer/cow/boar/whatever else was lying around).

Pig guts. That sounds about right.

Facing humiliation is one of the skills I list on my resume.

It has been my observation over a lifetime of humble pie eating that as soon as I start thinking that I am ‘all that and a bag of chips’ one of my new cherry red Steve Madden stilettos falls in the toilet and I have to fish it out with a body part not covered with a glove.

NOTE: The phrase ‘all that and a bag of chips’ is a silly jumble of words meaning that I feel like I look pretty darn good in my cherry red Steve Madden stilettos, and I can eat a bag of chips and not gain weight.

And that’s how it went last Sunday while I was teaching my Sunday school class. They’re called Sunbeams. They’re four-years-old. They love me, mostly because I always bring snacks and I own a lot of puppets. I love them back, mostly because they remind me that there is still hope in the world.

I am a rocking four-year-old Sunday school teacher. I thought.

Last Sunday, in the spirit of Merry and Christmas, I brought my Fisher Price nativity set to class. We spent time setting up the manger, Mary and Joseph, the ever popular baby Jesus, the animals, the little wishing well, and the cat. The cat is so popular that it tends to get tucked away in little pockets and stolen, but that’s an object lesson for another time.

We had a blast, setting, arranging, and pretending. Standing over the neatly displayed crèche scene, I said something profound and wise and teacherly to my Sunbeams.

Something like, “And that children is why we should be kind and loving and . . .”

Not checking behind me, I went to sit down in my teeny, tiny four-year-old chair. It wasn’t there. I hit the ground butt first, collapsing onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.

And finishing my sentence, I said, “. . . we should try to be more like Jesus.”

I glanced into the face of a cherubic little boy. He smiled at me and said, “I moved your chair, Sissa [Sister] Zern.”

“Yes. I see that.”

I stayed where I’d landed on the floor for a few more minutes, splayed out like the Wicked Witch after that house had fallen on her and spent a few moments eating humble pie with a side serving of awesome sauce.

Linda (Yum-Yum) Zern